


Viktors Don't Love Yuuris

by VanillaIsNotPlain



Series: Hashtag Viktors (Do) Love Yuuris [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Crispino Twin Telepathy Might Have Glitches, Don't Try This At Home, F/M, Fem!Yuuri, Gamer Yuri Plisetsky, Georgi Makes Everything Soggy, Girl Power, Girl problems, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Cream, Ji Guang-Hong is Too Pure for This World, Katsuki Hiroko - Freeform, Katsuki Mari - Freeform, Lilia is Put Upon, Makkachin (Yuri on Ice), Mila Babicheva is the Plot's Best Friend, Minako's Got Swag, Minami Kenjirou Loves His Sempai, Nishigori Triplets - Freeform, Nishigori Yuuko Knows What's Up, Otabek Altin - Freeform, Phichit Chulanont for Best Wingman 2014, Secrets, Servant x Service Cameo, Seung Gil Says No, Slow Romance, There's Something About Barcelona, Triggers will be listed in the chapter, VictUuri, Yuuri spelled as Yuurika, angst later, may be triggers, poor yakov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-06 20:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 52,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11043573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaIsNotPlain/pseuds/VanillaIsNotPlain
Summary: A sudden playful breeze sprang from nowhere (from hell, Yuuri claimed later). Yuuri's towel slipped from a nerveless grasp and fluttered gently to the paving, revealing a silhouette which hardly embodied a paragon of the male figure skating form. For one thing, it was narrow and curvy in all the wrong (or right, depending who you were asking) places.Yuuri had only one word to sum up the situation. “Yabai,” she croaked.Her observer disagreed. “Vkusno!!”Viktors don't love Yuuris (and other lies they like to tell themselves). In which professional men's figure skater Katsuki Yuuri has a secret, living legend Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t mind it in the least, and rising prodigy Yuri Plisetsky just wishes forgetful Mari wasn’t so… forgetful (and for less side quests). Viktor x fem!Yuuri.





	1. #MeetCute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two people receive the surprise of their lives. One is thrilled. The other is less than thrilled about that.

I don’t own Yuri!!! on Ice.

Katsuki Yuuri had a problem.

Well, actually Yuuri had lots of problems. You want the tl;dr of Yuuri’s life? That was it, basically. Yuuri always had problems.

Anyway, a short list of the most current ones:

Sorrow over the beloved family dog Vicchan’s death.

A flubbed professional skating performance at the men’s final at Sochi.

The cold reception of Yuuri’s childhood idol and fellow competitor, Viktor Nikiforov, immediately after at the airport.

An ensuing career decision crisis.

And last but not least, a bone-deep exhaustion from both jetlag and the long night before last (an ill-advised attempt to confront the previously listed).

Those few were at the top. Even after crashing for the entire previous day to try to sleep it all off, Yuuri was quite tired of all of them. Well, when the going got tough, the tough went bathing (Aching muscles from the strain of that past night’s exertions in the local ice rink might have influenced the decision too).

Yuuri grabbed toiletries from the bedroom, marched purposefully towards the showers and performed the necessary preparations for a good long soak in the onsen. On the way there, only quick reflexes honed by years of dedicated practice (being a nationally ranked professional in male figure skating had its benefits) saved our unfortunate hero from a collision with a pile of towels barrelling past.

“Oh, Yuuri, you’re awake! Did you have fun at the Ice Castle the other night?” Mari called out over the laundry pile, balancing it with one arm while using the other to swipe her streaked hair out of her vision.

“Yes, thanks, Mari-neechan,” Yuuri answered, fiddling with the tucked-in corner of the modesty towel, and trying hard to keep impatience from bleeding through the words. “Just tired. It was a long night. I’m heading to the private baths, I think I’d like a bit of time alone to get sorted.”

“Sure, sure! Oh, but there was an interesting customer who just arrived while you were asleep. He had funny colored hair and everything, seems fun. He went to the men’s baths, even though it’s so early. Maybe you’ll run into him after you finish.”

Yuuri doubted it, fully intending to stay in the baths as long as safety allowed, sweating out troubles (stewing in misery, a more honest but generally ignored part opined). “Well, this is Japan. He’d hardly be the only one with unusual hair,” Yuuri rejoined, edging away from the garrulous sister, and towards the sweet solitude of the private baths.

“Well, that’s true I guess, but he doesn’t seem Japanese. Maybe European? I had to point out the men’s baths for him and explain in English.” Mari continued enthusiastically. But Yuuri had long gone by then, disappeared behind the sign marked for the private baths.

Later, Yuuri would lament the hurry that led to the cutting off of that conversation. If given the opportunity to go back in time to change past events, well, let’s just say, it wouldn’t be the highest ranked, but would land solidly in the top ten at least. And you have to remember, for Yuuri, that’s saying a lot.

Regardless, Yuuri stepped behind the partition armed with a basket of toiletries and enrobed in a simple towel, all senses keening towards a nice, quiet, relaxing soak. With one foot in the water, Yuuri sighed contentedly. Preparing to unwrap the towel and sink beneath the healing waters, Yuuri involuntarily voiced the single thought remaining (in English, as was Yuuri’s wont in private conversations during trips back home in Japan). “This is heaven.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” the very naked silver-haired world-champion Russian figure skater Viktor Nikiforov answered politely.

Simultaneously, three people in the humble Yutopia inn and onsen received a severe shock. Each expressed their complex emotions with a simple word.

Yuuri, already startled past the limits of sanity by the unexpected presence, immediately recognized the bath intruder (staring at his face on the posters plastered all over one's bedroom for unnumbered hours will do that for a person). Reflexively hugging the towel tighter, Yuuri backed up, gaping obtusely at the childhood idol present in the (ridiculously well-toned) flesh.

However, the modest action coupled with a sudden playful breeze that sprang from nowhere (from hell, Yuuri claimed later) produced the opposite effect as desired. Yuuri’s towel slipped from a nerveless grasp and fluttered gently to the paving, revealing a silhouette which hardly embodied a paragon of the male figure skating form. For one thing, it was what you might call pleasingly plump (Yuuri was grateful to those who called it so, but would personally choose a different phrase for it). For another, it was narrow and curvy in all the wrong (or right, depending who you were asking) places.

Yuuri had only one word to sum up the situation. “Yabai,” she croaked.

Her observer disagreed. “Vkusno!” Viktor crowed.

Elsewhere, Mari paused in her laundering, something about her earlier encounter niggling at the back of her head. Something about the baths? She remembered setting them up for the evening, reaching to switch the signs for the switched private and public baths, but being interrupted by that stranger, and then... She stopped in realization. “Oh dang.”

Oh well, she shrugged it off. It was super early, it’s not like anything could have happened yet anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins. This fanfiction is also posted on the Fanfiction website, and does not endorse falsifying your gender, especially if you compete in a gender-specific international sport. It also does not purport to be realistic. At all. Don’t try this at home, kids.


	2. #GirlTalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which much-needed explanations are given. Yuuri doesn't much like the last one though.

“But isn’t Yuuri a boy’s name?” Viktor asked, curiosity burning in his mirror-blue eyes.

“Is that really the important issue right now?” Yuuri retorted, exasperated. Her damp hair dripped down the neck of her hastily thrown on oversized sweatshirt as she faced him inside the main room of the ryokan.

“If you’re asking if I emptied the fridge and defrosted the ice maker before I left, yes, I did. At least, I think so,” he trailed off lamely.

Yuuri groaned.

“And don’t worry about my car not being used, I don’t have one. I don’t drive. At least, not anymore, after _that_ …”

“After what?” Yuuri asked warily.

“Oh, nothing!” Viktor replied too innocently.

Yuuri decided she didn’t want to know.

“Yuurika! We’ve finished converting the unused banquet room. Please help Viktor bring up his things,” Katsuki Hiroko, the okami-san of Yuutopia, shouted down.

“Eureka?” Viktor (almost) echoed. “Like Archimedes in the bath? How appropriate for an onsen family!”

She hadn’t heard that before (not). “No, it’s Yuurika.”

“Oh, Yuurika, is it? What a lovely name,” Viktor suavely sidestepped the previous question.

Subconscious reflex from years of drilled Japanese politeness drew out a rushed “Thank you.” It was followed by the more heartfelt “But why are you here?”

Viktor merely beamed at her. “I already told you. I’m going to coach you to win gold at this year’s Grand Prix.”

“But why?”

“Why what?”

Why everything, Yuurika thought, hoisting pieces of luggage. “Why do you want to be my coach?” He certainly hadn’t looked eager to even be in the same room with her at the airport at Sochi, just distantly polite to the point of frigidity. Yuurika couldn’t reconcile the discrepancy.

Viktor just laughed at her frustration as he trailed after her, rolling bags in tow. “You certainly have a lot of questions. I do too. Tell you what - let’s take turns asking. I want to get to know you, Yuuri. Or should I call you Yuurika?” he trailed off uncertainly, a finger poised at the side of his mouth in consideration.

“Yuuri is fine, I’m used to it. You’re probably more familiar with it anyway. Er, that is, not that you’d have any reason to remember my name in particular from skating, of course,” Yuurika backtracked lamely, setting down the luggage to allow her hands to fly about in embarrassment.

“Ha ha ha, of course I do, I flew here to coach you, didn’t I?” Viktor laughed at her. Yuurika was beginning to notice that he did that lot.

“What made you decide to coach me?” Yuurika turned and faced Viktor in the narrow room, attempting to get the conversation back on track.

There was a slight hesitation before Viktor broke out in an even sunnier smile. “What you did two nights ago, naturally!”

“Ate a half-gallon of ice cream alone in my room, spent the night at Yuuko’s, painted each other’s nails and fell asleep with the triplets during a Sailor Moon marathon?” In her defense, Yuurika had had a rough time at Sochi. In her prosecution, she had had a similarly rough time in several other events, and followed a similar recovery procedure, either alone or with her ex-roommate, the Thai skater Phichit Chulont. This may or may not have been the reason for her less-than-optimal-for-figure-skating BMI.

“Er, no.” For the first time Viktor’s heart-shaped smile slipped slightly. “I meant the video.”

“Video?”

“Of you skating my routine!”

“Ohh, your routine!” Yuurika had forgotten about that. During their sleepover, she and Yuuko had played truth-or-dare, and skating to Viktor’s routine Stammi Ni Vicino had been the dare (in her defense, Yuurika didn’t know herself how many posters she had of Viktor in her room).

“But I didn’t even skate the routine well,” Yuurika noted. It had been very late, and she was certain she had flubbed several landings.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. The expressiveness, the emoting was very good, as well as the step sequences,” Viktor countered, a truly serious note entering his voice for the first time. “Such talent should be nurtured, in the time remaining.”

Yuurika appreciated that. She always tried to keep a firm grasp on both her strengths and her limitations on the ice, especially with the shortness of a skater’s career lifespan. However, she still had another (quite logical) objection. “But we didn’t film it!”

“But it’s right here.” Viktor fumbled in his pocket for his phone, swiped and typed his way to Youtube, and began playing the video in question for her. “Are you sure you weren’t -”

They were interrupted by a tiny but insistent _ding_ from Yuurika’s phone.

“Ahh, I might have known,” Yuurika moaned into her hand, reading Yuuko’s text. “I should never have introduced the triplets to Phichit to learn about social media.”

“My turn!” Viktor leaned forward eagerly. “Why do you skate in the men’s division, Yuuri?”

“... That’s a bit of a long story.”

-Flashback to Yuurika’s first international competition-

“I’m so glad you qualified while still in the junior division, Yuurika! Though this will be your only one and it’s held in your home country, it will still be good exposure before your senior debut. It’ll be best to get this under your belt before moving to Detroit, so at least you’ll be adjusting to only one thing at a time.”

The booming voice of the ponytailed Italian man wafted over civil servant Hasebe Yutaka. He understood English (of course. That’s why he was volunteered _read: drafted_ into this registration job in the first place), but he hardly cared. He took the proffered papers from the man, glancing over them in preparation for sorting.

“Yes, thank you, Celestino,” replied a shy voice, also in English. He could tell the owner of the voice was Japanese, but little else about them, as they remained hidden behind the impeccable suit of the loud man. Hasebe would, in ordinary circumstances, have been curious to know more about the Japanese figure skater that had netted a foreign coach, but he currently had more pressing concerns.

Just as he thought that, his phone rang insistently. “Excuse me,” Hasebe said politely, and took the call. Immediately his aloof demeanor evaporated, replaced by an unrestrained grin (From neutral face to lovesick emoji, Yuurika thought, peeking from behind Celestino). “Yes, Lucy?” he crooned. He listened for a few seconds, then shouted “What!”, causing both the man and the skater to jump (Shocked “O” emoji! Yuurika recognized as she dodged Celestino’s long hair). “Your contractions are HOW far apart?! Hang on, I’ll be right there!” Hasebe ended the call and rushed to the back table.

“Ichimiya-san! Lucy is in labor! I have to go!”

“Okay, just file the papers you have now. I don’t know English, so I can’t cover for you, but we can get someone else for the next registrants.”

“Ugh, I don’t have time for this!” Frowny face with a capital “D”, Yuurika notes, in awe at how fast the civil servant looks over the stacks of papers on his desk, placing one set in the men’s singles junior division and one in the women’s. “I’m coming, Lucy!” He disappeared down a back hallway.

Sometime later, Yuurika and Celestino waited at the doors to the rink. Men’s and women’s singles were taking place in the building simultaneously; the noise from the other gender’s rink did little to dampen Yuurika’s nerves.

“Deep breaths. Remember, the crowd is on your side. This is just first of many times you will hear your name called to skate for a cheering audience.” Celestino stepped back as a staff member gave him the nod.

“Right,” Yuurika responded firmly, steeling herself for her entrance.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the audio system. “Third up, Katsuki Yuuri, skating in the junior men’s final.”

“What.” Yuurika stated flatly.

“What?” Celestino echoed curiously. “Oh well, no time now. Go get ‘em!”

With a strong push, Yuurika glided out to the flash-glittering stadium, mind whirling.

She could not have told you afterwards any part of what happened in there. One good thing resulted from the fiasco: her performance nerves had completely evaporated.

And the thing about Yuurika was, those nerves were essentially the only thing tying her down.

The downside of that fact was, this was probably the best performance she ever managed in her entire skating career up to the present moment. But neither, of course, would know that yet.

“Congratulations, Yuuri! A bronze in your first international! Wonderful job!” Celestino tossed an arm around her shoulder as he led her off the podium.

“Thank you… ehh?!” Yuurika gasped as the past hour caught up with her. “I skated? I placed? I’m Yuuri??”

Celestino frowned. “Is the name a problem?”

“Well, no, it’s not…” Yuurika trailed off, biting her lip. Mari-neechan had often called her that as a pet name; it was jarring to hear it from others, but nothing she couldn’t acclimate herself to. The real problem was, “Everyone thinks I’m a boy!”

“Well, you’ve placed, so they know your name now. And there will be a lot of uncomfortable questions if you suddenly claim to be a girl after this. You could even be banned from professional skating for life.”

“For life?!”

“Sure. So, I think it’ll be easier just to continue like this.”

“Easy?!”

“Well, face it, Yuuri!” Celestino laughed, eyes crinkling as he looked at the short-haired, washboard figure with big doe-brown eyes before him. “You’re practically indistinguishable from a boy already!”

-End flashback-

“And that’s how I started my tradition of a good old-fashioned post-competition cry in the bathroom stalls,” Yuurika concluded.

“Wow,” Viktor commented, a peculiar look on his face. “That’s… something.”

“You’re trying not to laugh, aren’t you.”

Viktor propped his hands behind him, threw back his head and laughed for a full minute (Yuurika counted).

“But Viktor, you have to realize that this is a big risk. If the association finds out that you’ve been hiding my gender, there could be serious consequences for you. If you walk away now, no one will ever know you found out. Are you sure you still want to do this?” Yuurika peered at him, hoping he would appreciate the weight of his decision. A very different hope that she dared not admit to herself competed within her, but she firmly shoved that to the recesses of her private thoughts.

Viktor returned her gaze with matching gravity. “Of course. Yuuri, I am not afraid of anything in skating.”

Yuurika just continued looking at him, equal parts relief and confusion. This was a dream come true. More than a dream! She had never in her wildest fantasies imagined having her idol Viktor Nikiforov as a coach! Honestly, she wasn’t sure how she would have borne being suddenly offered that and having it just as suddenly denied. Now, it seemed, she wouldn’t have to.

Her dream come true now raised his arms with a bone-cracking yawn. “Well, it’s getting late, we’d better turn in! Expect for me to work you hard tomorrow!” Yuuri had never heard such ominous words said so cheerfully before, though she couldn’t help but agree with his proposal.

“Of course. Good night, Viktor.” Yuurika bowed shyly, and backed towards the door.

“Good night, Yuuri!” Viktor practically glowed at her. Ugh, she hoped her eyes could readjust to the gloom in the hallway after that. As she slid the door shut, one last (and very crucial) question occurred to her. “Um Viktor… how much did you see?”

“How much what did I see?”

What, indeed. Yuuri choked on the answer to that question. “In the baths,” she rephrased.

Viktor just stared at her, innocent cluelessness written all over his features. Then realization struck. “Oh!” He brought a fist down on his opposite palm. “You mean your naked body!”

“Erghlffl,” Yuuri responded eloquently.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry! There was so much steam, it was like a curtain! Of course, I saw more than plenty though,” Viktor assured her.

Yuurika froze, her face a rictus of horror.

“To be able to tell you’re a girl, I mean! Naturally!” Viktor smiled at her serenely. After a silent pause, he tilted his head quizzically. “Yuuri?”

“Good night, Viktor,” Yuurika echoed herself hollowly.

“‘Night, Yuuri!” Viktor waved at her enthusiastically.

Yuurika shut the door and traveled numbly back to her room. She was hallucinating, she realized. She knew she shouldn’t have eaten that whole half-gallon of ice cream in one sitting. She’d wake up in the morning and everything would go back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Hasebe, Lucy, or Ichimiya from Servant x Service.  
> Regarding Yuurika's name: It's true when I first wrote this, I didn't know Yuuri was gender neutral. Pretty early on, I was informed the male name's characters indicate a 'drive to win', and the female means 'lily'. I thought it would be fun if the Katsukis thought Yuurika would be a boy and planned for the male name, but when she came, they were so flustered that they just stuck the character for 'flower' to the end of the 'desire to win' name, instead of changing the character, because Yuurika had to get her awkwardness from somewhere (and because this meaning is such an integral part of Yuuri's life)! It didn't really come up in the story though, and of course Viktor has no idea of any of this. The name also was particularly inspired by Yurika from Martian Successor Nadeshiko, whom I love a lot. And also, Eureka! puns (and yes, Yuurika is stressed differently than Eureka, so they're not complete homonyms).


	3. #LoveHandles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the mascot finally arrives, and a man gets between a woman and her food. It really could have gotten much uglier.

It wasn’t a hallucination.

Unless, of course, hallucinations greet you with a badly-accented “Konnichiwa,” down a full Japanese breakfast set in record time (while moaning ‘Vkusno!’ every few bites like clockwork), and welcome their newly arrived curly-haired poodle that looks like a clone of your dead pet. Actually, that last part did sound like a hallucination.

“Vicchan…?” Yuurika mumbled wonderingly, reaching out to ruffle a fluffy ear. ‘Too slow!’ beady jet eyes seemed to twinkle at her, and her hand was enthusiastically cleaned by a warm pink tongue.

“Aww! Makkachin likes you! He doesn’t do this to everyone, you know!” Viktor regarded the scene in front of him approvingly.

Until, that is, Mari walked in with several boxes that had arrived simultaneously, and Makkachin transferred his attention to her calf as the new recipient of his washing responsibilities.

“Or he just likes Japanese people. Maybe it’s the soy sauce?” Viktor mused.

“He’s an exact copy of Vicchan!” Hiroko cooed fondly at the canine, before regarding Yuurika with concern. “Will you be alright, Yuurika?”

“Yes, Mom, thanks,” Yuurika assured her, trying to muster enough cheerfulness in her smile to be convincing.

“Vicchan?” echoed Viktor, only catching the one word among the rest of the Japanese.

“Yuuri’s poodle. He died recently,” Mari explained succinctly in heavily-accented English, strewing boxes across the room.

“I’m so sorry!” Viktor gasped, genuine sorrow on his features.

“Thank you.” Yuurika turned the same smile towards him.

Viktor finished the rest of his breakfast in silence. “Well,” he said, rising, “Now that Makkachin is here, we can get started on the first part of your training, Yuuri.”

“Of course! Will it be jumps?” Yuurika asked. She still lacked confidence in her landings, under pressure especially. She thought having her idol’s attention fixed on her would provide that admirably.

“Of course not! Do you expect Makkachin to do jumps?” Viktor retorted.

“Makkachin’s training too?!” Yuurika gaped. Though, on second thought, she was dealing with a world-class ice skating genius here. If anyone could raise a skating dog, it would have to be him.

“Sure!” Viktor affirmed with a heart-shaped smile.

“What does his routine look like?” Yuurika asked curiously.

“Well we normally run about five blocks every morning…”

“Oh, you mean exercising,” Yuurika realized, deflated.

Viktor blinked at her. “Certainly, what did you expect?”

Yuurika only mumbled in response.

Viktor fixed a stern look upon her. “Yuuri, I hope you weren’t thinking that we were starting on your routine today. And even less that I force my dog to ice skate.”

More mumbles.

“Yes, I am coaching you, but there’s no way I’m letting you near the ice until we have your weight back down and your stamina and flexibility up.”

Increasingly agitated mumbles.

“How long it takes depends on you. Although, I can think of one way I can help speed things up!” Viktor beamed magnanimously at the downcast girl beside him, and neatly lifted her breakfast tray. “None of this divine fattening nourishment which I do not know the name of for you. Low calorie food only, until you’re back in shape.” With this hellish pronouncement, Viktor promptly placed the tray down and stuffed his face with Yuurika’s breakfast.

“I think we’ve got some more miso soup and grilled fish?” Mari offered her sister.

Yuurika just sighed a sigh that would have melted the hardest of hearts. Except, apparently, for the ravenous Russian one beside her. “Yes, please.”


	4. #ChattyKathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the polyglot shows off, and learns that not all nicknames work as well as in his head.

“Konnichiwa!” Ring ring.

“Ohayo!”

“Konnichiwa!” Ring ring.

Yuurika groaned. She was pretty sure that had to be Viktor’s favourite (only) Japanese phrase, besides ‘konbanwa’ on their evening route. He never lost an opportunity to employ them, nor his shiny bell on his bicycle. “Is he always like this?” she asked the panting poodle jogging alongside her. Makkachin merely grinned his special doggy grin at her and replied with an excited yip.

“Of course I am,” Viktor replied serenely from his bicycle. “It is important for us as professionals to always show our best manners in public.”

“Ohayo, Yuuri-kun!”

“Ohayo gozaimasu!” Yuurika waved at a neighbor.

“So it’s not just your sister who calls you that?” Viktor asked. “Ohayo gozaimasu!” Ring ring.

Dang, he was quick with languages. “Oh, no, well, everyone who’s heard of me from figure skating knows me as Yuuri. Only those neighbors and friends who knew me beforehand would recognize me as Yuurika in this outfit, jogging with you,” Yuurika explained, breathing hard. Talking was still an effort, but she could feel herself getting more in shape with each passing day.

“That’s… surprising,” Viktor noted circumspectly.

“I’ve been mostly in Detroit since my debut anyways. They probably just think the Katsukis have twins with really similar names that are off in college.”

“So who’re the people who do know your situation?”

“There’s the Nishigori family, who run the ice rink. I’ve told you about Yuuko, I think?”

“The one with the trio of terrible trending masters?”

That was one way to put it. “Yeah. There’s her and her husband, and then there’s Minako-sensei.”

“Sensei? Isn’t that… teacher?”

“Yes, she’s my ballet teacher.”

“Since I’m your skating coach, aren’t you going to call me sensei?”

“That or shishou, I guess.” If you were Japanese, Yuurika leaves unsaid.

“Shi… no, let’s stick with sensei. Let’s try it. Yuuri-kun!”

“Hai, Viktor-sensei?”

Silence.

Yuurika glanced sidelong at Viktor. He had the strangest look on his face.

“No, let’s not do that. I’m not Japanese anyway,” he said finally.

Well. Yuurika could have told him as much, if he wanted.

They finished their jog - slash - ride in companionable quiet.


	5. #CheatDay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Katsuki Yuutopia is haunted, but like all good stories, it ends with a princess-carry.

In the middle of the night, Viktor was woken by a curious noise.

“Stop snuffling, Makkachin,” he whined, blindly patting the furry lump curled next to him. He slowly became more aware as his hand met not soft sleep-relaxed fluff but the taut raised hackles and bunched muscles of the poodle’s protective mode.

“What’s the matter?” Viktor mumbled sleepily. He followed Makkachin’s gimlet gaze with his eyes, and saw a shadow moving across the shoji facing the hallway.

“It’s just an insomniac guest. It’s alright,” Viktor crooned, rubbing the dog’s back soothingly.

But that was only until he heard a slow, drawn-out creak and saw a sinister mist creep under the shoji.

Now, Viktor didn’t really believe in ghosts, per say. He was actually a pretty handy person to have on hand during horror movies (He generally just plastered on his trademark heart-shaped smile through the whole thing, with short spurts of shoveling popcorn into it). But since coming to Japan, he had looked up a few subtitled films, just to familiarize himself with the language. And a number of those happened to be horror flicks.

Viktor wasn’t sure what was going on here, but he couldn’t deny the shiver creeping up his spine. He definitely felt colder than when Makkachin (who was still on the alert) woke him up. If there really was something out there… what did it want? Did he commit some sort of blunder, and now it was searching the ryokan for him? Maybe keeping Yuuri off the ice had offended some sort of ice god or yuki-onna? What could he do to appease it? And did it understand English?

Regardless, he couldn’t leave the rest of the poor guests and family to be gruesomely murdered in their beds for his own (unintentional!) wrongdoing. He had to make it right. Viktor slipped from his bed, quickly wrapping on the ryokan-provided yukata lying beside it. Bravely, he slid the shoji open and walked into the hall, Makkachin shadowing his footsteps. The trail of fog led him deeper into the ryokan. As he tiptoed down the hall, ears straining, Makkachin suddenly broke away from him and bounded off into the gloom.

“Makkachin!” Viktor whisper-shouted. So much for man’s best friend. Well, if the deserter got eaten by a vengeful ghost, it served him right, he better not come back crying to _him_ (because Viktor’d be the one crying anyway). Distracted by his internal grumblings, Viktor cautiously crept forward until reaching the looming, hissing source of the mysterious mist. He inched towards it, arms outstretched, until he bumped into -

An open freezer.

“Oh, is that all?” Viktor laughed aloud and shut the freezer door, effectively ending the compressor noise and the roiling moist cool fog pouring down the hall. With that taken care of, he could now see Makkachin sitting off to the side of the kitchen, whining and pointing towards -

A zombie!

Soulless eyes above sluggish jaws stared vacantly at him. There was a cranium-sized object in its hand, from which it took regular mouthfuls using some sort of implement. It was even moaning mindlessly, just like in the movies.

Viktor gulped. He couldn’t leave Makkachin to such a cruel fate, deserter though he was. He slid towards him slowly, reaching for his collar, which jerked about as the poodle was now nosing the zombie’s kneecaps. After several attempts, he managed to grasp hold and draw the errant dog away, only to freeze as the moanings above him changed pitch.

“Vik...tor?”

Viktor closed his eyes. So the zombie knew him in life. What a tragic fate. He looked up, dreading who he would find, only to discover the cold, clammy brain-like item thrust to his nose. He fell to the floor in horror.

“...Want some...?”

Viktor gulped. Who knew brains smelled like -

Ice cream?

Above him, the somnambulating Yuurika graciously waited for Viktor to help himself to her (mostly consumed) gallon tub. A small melted morsel remained just by her thoroughly licked lips. Viktor gingerly reached up to wipe it off with one nerveless finger, and absently placed it in his mouth. Plain vanilla.

Viktor nearly wept in relief. “No thank you, Yuuri,” he responded gently, hoisting himself back to his feet. “And I think you’ve had plenty yourself.” He carefully pried the container from oblivious hands, replaced it in the freezer and steered Yuurika towards the door.

“Not… finished…”

“No, you’re quite finished for tonight, young lady. Back to bed you go,” he whispered softly, attempting to guide her back to her room.

"Nnooo..." Yuurika resisted, clawing for the freezer door and clinging on like a particularly stubborn and sleepy limpet.

Well, this was going nowhere fast. And this sleeping beauty was cutting into his own beauty sleep. It took a lot of effort to look like Viktor.

"Oh, yes," he retorted, lifting Yuurika in a princess carry, resting her head in the crook of his neck. Yuurika whimpered, but did not resist. With arms full of sleeping girl, Viktor wended his way back down the hall, Makkachin trailing after the pair, tail wagging. Finally arrived in front of Yuurika’s room, Viktor shifted Yuurika’s weight to his chest to free one arm to open the door. “Finally, off to bed with you.” The sudden removal of warmth caused her to finally stir.

“Bed…?”

“Yes, bed,” Viktor said firmly, hand twisting the knob.

“Agrljsf!”

Yuurika twisted from his grip, landing on the floor with a dull thump. She grabbed the knob, flew into her room, and promptly slammed the door in Viktor’s face.

“Yuuri?”

He couldn’t make out the response through the door, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t Japanese or in any other language known to man.

“Yuuri, I think you’re sleepwalking. I just want to make sure you get into bed safely.”

There were some incoherent noises, but tailing after them Viktor heard “I’m awake, it’s all fine now, thanksgoodnight.”

“Yuuri, were those posters in there? What are they of?”

“GOODNIGHT!”

Viktor and Makkachin looked at each other.

“What was that about?” Viktor wondered aloud.

Makkachin just huffed back at him.


	6. #Bloated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Viktor learns that the female body is mysterious and wonderful, perhaps a bit too much so for his tender sensibilities. Also, a new challenger looms.

“So, I think you’re about ready to return to the ice, Yuuri! Your late-night binge notwithstanding,” Viktor announced the next morning.

Yuurika bit back a squeal of embarrassment, settling for a grunt of acknowledgement. Though she was encouraged by her fitness level returning, she still pushed her limits with each workout. This morning jog though felt particularly difficult for some reason.

“Yuuri, what is that? I’ve been meaning to ask you since we started,” Viktor asked as he pointed out the white walls and characteristically curved roofs rising in the distance.

“That’s Hasetsu-oshiro. Er, Hasetsu castle.”

“There are castles in Japan?”

“Sure. This one has a ninja house.”

“Wow, Japanese ninja!! Are there throwing stars and knives - “

“Shuriken and kunai.”

“Caltrops -”

“Makibishi.”

“Tonfa?”

“Er, yes, probably? I haven’t been since grade school,” Yuurika explained, breathing hard.

“Can we go?”

“Maybe later,” Yuurika hedged, slowing to a stop and resting her hands on her knees.

“Hasetsu Castle!” hummed Viktor to himself, snapping a selfie with the edifice in the distant background. “And… tagged. Okay, let’s move on, Yuuri. Yuuri?!”

The addressed girl was currently bent over trying not to barf on the pavement, unsuccessful at muffling her retching.

“Sorry Viktor, I guess I better walk back home,” Yuurika managed to say after swallowing back her bile. A headache started blooming at the base of her neck. Yabai. And she was so close to getting back on the ice too. Well, it should only last a day anyway. She’d be as good as new in twenty-four hours.

Viktor walked his bike back beside her. “I’m sorry, this is really bad luck. We’ll call a hospital when we get home.”

“No need, I’ll just take a painkiller and then maybe soak in the onsen for while. I should be fine tomorrow,” Yuurika responded, her voice legarthic. The pounding was getting worse.

“Yuuri, as a professional skater, your health is important! And even if you weren’t - it’s best to be proactive to avoid spreading any germs or viruses,” Viktor scolded.

“It’s not contagious,” Yuurika hissed. Now not only footsteps, but even moving her jaw caused pain to lance through her head.

Viktor glared at her sternly. “How do you know that?”

Well, that was obvious. “The only way you could catch it is if you spontaneously grew a uterus and ovaries!”

The wheels beside her stopped. Yuurika turned to look back, and saw a blush creeping up Viktor’s neck and spreading to his cheeks.

She had said that aloud? “Yabai.”

###

Meanwhile in mother Russia, a very bad tempered blonde teen sat on his bed, staring at the newsfeed on his Instagram. He absently pet his cat, green eyes glimmering from the depths of his leopard-print hoodie. A growl from deep inside rose in volume, mingling with the constant purr of his feline companion.

“That has got to be the worst selfie in the history of cameras,” Yuri Plisetsky rumbled.

(Elsewhere in Detroit, unbeknownst to him, a certain Thai self-proclaimed social media connoisseur made the exact same comment. Poor filter choice, wrong focus, and a complete disregard for the rule of thirds. And that’s ignoring the fact that the subject matter (which is the location you tagged, Viktor, not yourself) is virtually indiscernible in the very distant background.)

After sufficiently berating Viktor’s selfie skills, Yuri finally focused on the location tag. “Hasetsu,” he hummed. Swiping to another page, he typed and clicked until finally shutting his laptop, letting it drop to the bed. He resumed stroking his cat, a sinister smirk stealing across his mouth. “Japan, here I come.”


	7. #GirlsDayOut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri Plisetsky meets Japan. Hopefully both will survive the encounter intact.

Yuri Plisetsky was having the time of his life.

Who knew there was a country where you could take pictures of ridiculous statues, block Yakov yelling at him, buy shirts with cool tigers on them for cheap right off the street, avoid Mila deadlifting him, walk down roads without fear of being run over, and ignore Georgi’s incessant bawling about - Anna? Anya? That girl who Yuri didn’t know at all and cared about even less. In a word: Japan was awesome. The only improvements he could think of would be if everyone spoke Russian with maybe some English like normal people, and substituting Viktor staying there with his grandfather. But then again, Viktor was the reason he was here in the first place. Thinking of which, where was that blasted skating freak?

It suddenly sunk in that Yuri had just traveled alone to a foreign country on a same-day flight where he had no lodgings, no bearings, next to no local currency, and no knowledge of the language.

Yuri took it all back. Japan was horrible. He’d never return of his own volition. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t even really chosen to come here in the first place. It was all _his_ fault.

“VIKTORRRR!”

“Oh, are you a fan?” an elderly gentleman asked amicably in slow English.

An NPC! Though clearly unintelligent, if he mistook Yuri’s cry of rage and vengeance for adulation.

“You’ll probably be able to find him at Ice Castle about now,” the man told him, eyes crinkling.

That matched up with the castle tag from Viktor’s post. Excellent! Yuri turned to leave, before remembering something necessary.

“Do you know how to get there?” Yuri’s phone had run out of battery on the plane, so he couldn’t look up the destination himself (nor translate). He genuinely hoped the man would fork over the directions without demanding a side quest.

A short amount of time and scratches later (Yuri was now able to report that both Russian and Japanese house cats behaved very similarly when you rescued them from trees), Yuri found himself at the steps of the Ice Castle skating rink. He frowned at the building. It certainly didn’t look like the blurry shape in the background of Viktor’s ridiculous selfie. But it was reassuring to be back at a rink, regardless. Besides the familiarity, it lessened Yuri’s worry that Viktor had secretly abandoned his skating career to learn the mystic teachings of ninjutsu at that ninja castle.

He stalked to the entrance, only to narrowly avoid tripping on a line of four girls sitting on the top step crowded about a smartphone. No wait, there were only three girls. Good goodness, they looked so identical he wasn’t entirely sure even after triple checking.

Yuri cleared his throat loudly. “Um, excuse me.”

The trio gasped simultaneously and whipped the phone out of sight. “We totally had permission to be on that phone!” one assured him unconvincingly, as they scurried about for a hiding place.

“Uh, that wasn’t what I was going to ask,” Yuri said flatly.

They responded by releasing shared bated breaths. “Oh good. Then what do you need…” one asked, before turning to look at him finally. She gasped. “Yuri Plisetsky!!”

“Yabai yabai!!”

Yuri looked at them, alarmed. “You know me?”

“Junior division men’s singles ice skating champion? Poised to make the biggest senior debut this year? Of course we do!”

“Not, like, from missing child posters or anything?”

“What?”

Yuri stuck his hands in his pockets, shifting his gaze to the side. “Oh, nothing. Anyway, do you know where Viktor is?”

“Oh, he’s probably at Yuutopia.”

Yuri frowned. “That… doesn’t exist.”

“Not utopia, Yuutopia. It’s the onsen where he’s staying. It’s in that direction - you can’t miss it.”

“Oh. Someone had told me he’d be here.”

“Well, normally he is around this time, but today he’s not.”

“Typical.” Yuri turned to trudge off.

“Wait, wait! One thing before you go.”

Dang side quests. “What?” he barked, despite his best efforts to be nice to the helpful kids.

“Sign!” On cue, the pilfered phone, a smartpad, and a digital camera were thrust at him, along with a permanent marker. Yuri doubted they strictly belonged to the girls, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Uh, all right. Do you want me to make them out to you or something?” Yuri grit out around the marker lid between his teeth.

“Axel!”

“Loop!”

“Lutz!”

“Okay…” Yuri got to signing, then paused. “You’re kidding me.”

The three girls looked at each other. “Nope!”

“This country’s crazy,” Yuri concluded.


	8. #Cougar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which what you probably think will happen happens.

Yuri stood in the doorway of Yuutopia, feeling anything but having arrived at its homonym. He was tired, he was hangry, and he had just realized that he never gave a forwarding address for his luggage (which included his cat and his carryon due to a crowded flight). And, of course, no Viktor. Though, he supposed, just because Viktor wasn’t waiting in the doorway for him (like he should have been, the jerk) didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Yuri looked around, hoping to spot someone he could ask. Though he hoped for good news, he could just smell another side quest coming up. Or maybe that was the steaming plate of something presumably edible bobbing past him. The woman carrying it looked a likely prospect.

“Excuse me?” Yuri called out in his clearest English.

“Yes?” The woman whipped around to face him.

Unfortunately, the plate she was carrying whipped around with her. Like everything else in Japan so far (in Yuri’s opinion), the plate must have taken some issue with him, as its contents attacked Yuri’s face.

“Typical,” Yuri muttered, pawing off the sticky curry (and taking surreptitious licks of it from his messy hands when the woman wasn’t looking). He glanced down at his shirt and groaned. “Oh man, and this was my favourite ( _read: new)_ shirt.”

“Aw dang. That’ll set if I don’t get it out right away. Here!” Mari pushed him further into the ryokan to some changing stalls, dropped a clean yukata in his arms, and plopped some soap and towels into a basket. “Just change here, and leave your shirt over there. Use the showers there, and then you can soak in the men’s onsen until I get your shirt clean and dry. Don’t worry, the baths’ll be empty for another few hours.”

It was all a bit overwhelming, but it wasn’t like Yuri was coming up with any better ideas (and experience with Mila taught him that arguing with women with THAT tone of voice didn’t end well anyway). “Okay. Wait, wait! Do you know where Viktor is?”

“Viktor? Oh, he’s in one of the private baths. He generally uses one after practice,” Mari explained. “You should definitely be able to see him when he gets out.”

Finally, something was looking up. “One last thing! Which one is the men’s bath? I can’t read Japanese.”

Mari, already preparing to rush back into the kitchen, craned her neck to peer back at the bath signs. “Uh, that one!” she called over her shoulder, pointing.

“Great, thanks,” Yuri said gruffly. It never hurt to be polite (and frequently hurt not to be, again a past lesson courtesy of Mila).

After a quick but thorough scrubbing, Yuri wrapped himself in his towel and made his way over to the men’s bath. He listened, and didn’t hear anything inside (though the clatter from the kitchen, with frequent ‘aw dangs’, made it a little hard to hear). Confident in his solitude, Yuri slipped in.

Meanwhile, in the private baths, Yuurika and Viktor were taking their customary after-practice soak. After Yuurika’s workouts, Viktor had suggested that it would be beneficial for both coach-student bonding and for Yuurika’s flexibility if they spent time in the baths together and performed light stretches (all in swimwear, of course). Yuurika had quickly agreed. So every night, they reserved one private bath for the purpose. This particular night, even though Yuurika had practice cut short due to her PMS, she was looking forward to the onsen even more than usual to help relieve her headache (fortunately already significantly mitigated by the sweet ministrations of pain relievers). Viktor, already bounced back from the episode that morning, made no mention of skipping either (Yuurika seriously wondered if the man’s circuits registering delicacy, or at least their duration of activity, were defective on arrival).

As Viktor settled in the far end of the hot spring pool, Yuurika stepped in, preparing to discard her towel and sink into the comforting waters. Looking at Viktor, however, something inexplicable stirred in her chest. “Viktor, are you getting the feeling like you’ve been in this exact same situation before, and you know what’s about to happen so well that you can almost taste it?” she questioned aloud.

Viktor looked up at the sky with a serious expression, mulling it over. After a few seconds, he lowered his vision back to Yuurika and smiled at her brightly. “Hmm, nope,” he lied. His gaze settled at a point somewhere over her shoulder. “Oh, hello, Yuri!”

“What?”

“Hah?”

It was like slow motion as the two Yu(u)ris’ eyes met. The rest transpired pretty much as anyone would guess.

Yuurika gasped.

That breeze from hell played havoc with her towel, and it dropped to the pavestones.

“Yabai,” Yuurika stammered.

“Vkusno,” Viktor whispered.

“Expletive,” Yuri summarized.

Elsewhere in Yuutopia, Mari stopped scrubbing out curry stains and pondered for a minute, overcome with the strangest sense of deja-vu. After a bit of soul-searching, she shrugged it off. “Eh, probably nothing important,” she decided brightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good kids don’t get in baths when strangers ask them to. At the very least, they might overcharge you if you didn’t agree on a room price first. And though I mention them here, I can’t tell you when to take painkillers or not - I’m a fanfic writer, Jim, not a doctor (I don’t own Star Trek either).


	9. #SaladDays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri endears himself to the competition (end sarcasm), and a few more things are explained.

“Where are my manners?” Viktor gestured grandly as he lounged in the deep end. “Yuuri, may I present Yuri Plisetsky, the Russian prodigy who will make his senior debut this coming Grand Prix. I’ve not been expecting him.”

“Yes, I know. Well, who he is anyway,” Yuurika bubbled, only her eyes and the tip of her rounded nose visible above the soothing water. She regretted even revealing even that much after the past scene. She vaguely wondered how long she could hold her breath to hide beneath; her life goal was ten minutes.

“You do?” Yuri glared at her suspiciously, claws clutching the towel to his thin frame like a stubborn cat to carpet.

“Yes,” Yuurika answered shortly. “You told me yourself.”

Flashback to a few months ago, just after the disastrous final at Sochi -

Yuurika bolted into the men's room, a blur of blue on white, and shut herself in a stall. She drew deep breaths, listening to the echoing silence. Good. She was alone. It was just her luck that the ladies’ room was closed temporarily for cleaning, and the next nearest would be sure to be stuffed full of fans and press that would recognize her in a heartbeat. At least she managed to find solitude here.

She allowed a few hot tears to escape. She had been distressed when she found out about Vicchan’s death, and it had definitely shown in her skating. By now though she’d entered a state of shock and wasn’t nearly ready to begin processing the loss of her childhood companion. There was nothing Yuurika would prefer more than to make a quick call to her family, to hear the bittersweet comfort of their far-off voices, but she could not risk it in here. She hurriedly freshened up and set her game face back on, ready to walk back into the fray, but was stopped cold in the final step in her routine.

She recalled to her horror that men’s stalls don’t have sanitary napkin dispensers.

She hastily wrapped the offensive article in far past sufficient layers of bath tissue, determining the only method of disposal to be the used paper towel bins. She hoped no one would notice the sickly candied-iron stench.

She burst from the stall, ready to toss the bundle in the bin and thoroughly scrub her hands, but was bounced back by the stall door rebounding on someone’s face.

“Ow! What the - You piece of -!” A short swearing wisp of a male in a Russian team hoodie clutched his reddening nose. “Oh, it’s _you_.” The scathing voice was accompanied by a scowl deeper than Yuurika had ever seen on anyone twice his age.

“Meep!” Yuurika squeaked, hands jerking up in defense. Her noisome package flew from them and traced a clean arc above her head, landing with a distinct _plop_ in the commode behind her.

“The Japanese Yuuri, right? Pathetic.” His stare flicked towards her tear-tracked cheeks. “Came here to cry, little wuss?” The glowering boy stalked towards her, gaze crackling with tension. Yuurika swallowed and backed up, all the way to the range of the automatic flush.

“The skating world doesn’t need two Yuris. I’m more than enough. Remember this. I, Yuri Plisetsky, will crush you in my senior debut this year,” he vowed, glass shard green eyes piercing her defenseless brown ones.

“Uh,” Yuurika answered eloquently, as she felt her emotions slither and swirl down and down into a backed-up mess, rather like she had probably just done to the plumbing at her back as it activated.

“Good,” Yuri growled. He pierced her with one last glower, then turned and stalked out.

Yuurika placed a shaking hand over her overclocked heart. "Rude." She made a mental note to absolutely avoid the alarming punk in the future.

End flashback -

Viktor chuckled fondly. “That’s our Yuri - endearing himself wherever he goes. Now,” he continued, his tone shifting to one of business as he addressed the boy, “how much did you see earlier?”

Yuurika gasped in outrage. “Viktor!”

The tips of Yuri’s ears reddened. “Not much,” he mumbled towards his chest, not meeting either of their eyes.

“It was the steam, wasn’t it?” Viktor asked understandingly.

Yuurika cleared her throat. “I have swimwear on, you know.”

They ignored her.

“Yeah,” Yuri replied in a quiet voice.

“Good thing for steam / Dang that steam,” the two males exclaimed simultaneously.

“What?” asked Yuri, confused.

“What?” echoed Viktor innocently.

“What?” demanded Yuurika in a forbidding tone.

“Anyway,” Viktor hastily changed the subject, “You probably want to know why Yuuri is competing in the male bracket.”

Yuri looked suddenly doubtful. “If it’s something weird, don’t tell me that trash.”

“It’s not weird!” Yuurika defended. “It was a clerical error!”

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “In the hospital’s prenatal section?”

“No, in the Junior Finals in Japan several years ago.”

“Ah!” Yuri jumped up, water streaming off his shoulders, pointing a finger in righteous indignation at the girl in the bath. “It was _your_ fault!”

Yuurika regarded his finger with wary cross-eyed attention. “What did I do now?”

Flashback to Yuurika’s (and Yuri’s) first international competition (again) -

Hasebe Yutaka didn't have time for this. His wife was about to bring his first-born child into the world, darnit, and he couldn't call himself a man if he wasn't there for her now of all times. Admittedly, she had just told him over the phone in no uncertain terms that he should stay exactly where he was and absolutely not to come to the hospital, since she knew he would do more harm than good there. But after his (ridiculously convoluted and) long courtship with Lucy, he realized that was just the labour pains talking and she'd be forever grateful to see him by her side once she received the epidural (Spoiler: He was very wrong).

Hasebe squinted his eyes at the forms. Two Yuris, one for junior men’s, one for junior women’s. But in his hurry he’d separated the cover forms with the competitor’s personal name (Why only the personal? It was probably a typographical error in the instructions. How irresponsible) and requested assignment from the rest of the application. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out, though.

The forms handed in just a few minutes prior was for a small, pixie-faced imp with sharp eyes and longish blond locks skating for Russia. The others were for that small shy figure with the large terrified eyes still staring at him as he frantically shuffled papers.

One competitor’s name was written in English with neat, sharp lines: Yuri.

The other skater’s cover was also written in English, but the name was harder to make out. Yuriko? Yurika? Yuri-splortch? He didn’t know, and didn’t really care. For all intents and purposes, they were both Yuri.

He mulled over what he could remember of both children and their respective genders, and made his best judgment. He slapped the papers into their respective bins, and dashed out of the building, finally on his way to his wife and arriving child (And to a severe scolding from the former and the discovery that he fainted at the sight of blood, but let’s leave him in blissful ignorance as long as possible).

Meanwhile, back in the stadium, Yakov took back the processed forms with a grave countenance and walked towards the assigned section.

Yuri followed behind him, keeping close. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad - he'd been worried that he'd be eclipsed by the older kids, as he was sure everyone around him had at least a year on him, but he noticed he wasn't even the shortest. His nervous heart contracted with relief- until the other shoe dropped.

“This is the girl's section!” He shrieked indignantly.

“What? Oh.” Yakov glanced closer at the papers he carried. “Yes, you're right. There should be just enough time to reassign you if I hurry back.”

Yuri stewed silently.

“Maybe it's because of your hair,” Yakov delivered the parting shot over his shoulder.

Yuri grabbed a fistful of his chin length straw coloured hair and scowled. Forget however stupid Viktor wore his, as soon as Yuri got back to Russia, it was getting chopped. At least until he was older and his face more clearly masculine.

End flashback -

“So if you’d not been an idiot and actually payed attention like I did, we wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

“I guess we were just too excited,” Yuurika admitted. “And Celestino may have gone out drinking the night before,” she added in a rushed blur.

“It wasn’t Yuurika’s fault, it was Ciao-ciao’s.” Viktor employed the skating community’s affectionate nickname for Celestino. “Whether he went out or not, bad handwriting ruins lives.”

“Yes,” Yuurika threw her former coach under the bus. “I’m the victim here. So you should keep my gender a secret.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” responded Yuri scathingly. “But it wouldn’t be satisfying to get you kicked off the ice before I beat you in the senior division, so I won’t tell.”

“Thank you,” Yuurika said with a heart full of gratitude, humbly ignoring the inherent backhanded diss.

Something about the whole situation still did not sit right with Viktor. “If you and Yakov were there… where was I?”

“You were there, but you disappeared right around then,” Yuri recalled.

“That’s right! I remember being excited that you’d be in the senior bracket, then disappointed that I never caught a glimpse of you,” Yuurika confessed.

Viktor frowned, deep in thought. “Oh! I remember!”

Flashback to Yuurika’s and Yuri’s (but not Viktor’s) first international competition yet again -

“You stay with Yuri, Viktor, while I get these forms reprocessed,” Yakov instructed.

“No problem! See you later!” Viktor waved at their coach’s retreating figure, eyes shut serenely.

Yuri looked at him sideways. “You’re running off, aren’t you.”

Viktor turned towards the smaller boy, long starlit hair swishing like a brook on a clear cool night. “Why, Yuri, I’m hurt you would even think that.”

“You always say that before you leave.”

Viktor magnanimously ignored him. “Now, you don’t really need me to walk you to the practice area, do you?”

“You promised,” Yuri reminded him.

“No I didn’t,” Viktor equivocated. “Besides, you’re not a little kid anymore. You don’t need my help.”

Yuri frowned, trying not to show what Viktor’s assertion of his maturity meant to him.

“I’ll be right back anyway. You and Yakov won’t even notice.” Viktor began walking backwards, edging away toward a tantalizing corridor. “I’ll be cheering you on from the stands!”

“If you remember to get back in time,” Yuri grumbled at the floor (with good reason. Viktor wouldn’t). When he looked back up, Viktor had disappeared. “Wait!” Too late. Yuri glanced about, searching. “You took the map…”

Oh well. Time to look for some friendly NPCs again (hopefully some would know English if not Russian this time).

Viktor, meanwhile, was running in the opposite direction of the rink. He still had a few hours until he needed to report in for the senior finals, and during his last little stolen expedition when Yakov’s back was turned, he’d found a fascinating set of stairs that led all the way to the mechanical loading zone on the roof of the building. To his utter shock and delight, the door at the top had been unlocked, and through a parapet, he was able to view the city for kilometers (Okay, maybe more like meters with how crowded and smoggy this city was, but it was still cool). Admittedly, the roof was not exactly his target at the present.

Viktor climbed the stairs two at a time. Slightly out of breath, he took a minute to survey all the way he’d climbed to the top landing. Great. All clear.

He hopped onto the railing with one slender hip and held on firmly.

“Wheee!”

The original Russian skating prodigy yelped in glee as he slid all the way down the banisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you caught that holding your breath for ten minutes line, then you fight like a dairy farmer. Sorry, I couldn't help myself. I don't own Monkey Island, or Hasebe and Lucy from Servant x Service. Don’t slide down banisters kids, especially unsupervised. You might miss your Yuuri!  
> It's late to mention this, but I realized I wasn't very clear when I began posting this story, though you might already have realized this - I've already posted and finished this story on FF, and am posting it here on a continuous basis. I wanted to mention that now just in case you run across it on FF and are confused why it's finished there, or I guess if you want to just read it all at once over there as well (though I'd miss out on your thoughts here ;n; though of course commenting is open to everyone on FF). If you enjoy reading a bit at a time, then probably reading it here works just fine anyway! Also, I'm really enjoying adding the chapter descriptions on AO3~   
> I'm sorry I wasn't clearer earlier, and I hope this is okay! I'm sorry pleasedon'thateme!


	10. #CatFight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuurika endures, Viktor procrastinates, Yuri complicates things, and the triplets don't help.

It wasn’t until the three were all dried off and wrapped warm and toasty in yukatas in Viktor’s room that the obvious question occurred to them.

“Yuri, why did you you come to Japan?” Viktor asked.

“Oh, right.” Yuri held out a hand expectantly. “My DS.”

“What?”

“My 3DS? The one I asked you to hold for me when I was being mobbed by the Angels?”

“Oh, is that what you slipped in my jersey pocket?” Viktor replied brightly, visibly pleased to have that mystery cleared up.

“Angels?” echoed Yuurika. She couldn’t reconcile the image of any of those heavenly beings approaching Yuri voluntarily. He must have mistaken them for their fallen counterparts.

“His fangirls. They’re called Yuri’s Angels. They can be very enthusiastic if they catch the scent of potential autographs,” Viktor elucidated, traveling to his luggage and removing the desired article from his Team Russia jacket. “You could have just texted - I would have shipped it to you.”

“Like I’d trust you to package it properly. You better not have damaged it coming here,” Yuri warned, glancing up at him before meticulously inspecting his device. He’d never forgive Viktor if he missed out on time-sensitive DLC while waiting for repairs.

“Of course not,” Viktor retorted. “I always take good care of my things.”

“It isn’t yours,” Yuri reminded him.

“How did it escape the wash?” Yuurika asked. She resolved not to mention how often she had witnessed Viktor employing that particular suitcase as a chair in the furniture-free traditional Japanese room.

“Er…” Viktor hedged. He didn’t exactly enjoy doing his own laundry, and was a procrastinator by nature.

Yuri sniffed the portable system. “Eugh, it smells like old people.”

Viktor staggered back involuntarily, but soon recovered his poise. “Is that the only reason you came, Yuri?” he said peevishly.

“No.” Yuri (carefully) put down the DS. “Why are _you_ here, Viktor? I asked everyone, but they all just looked at me like I was crazy and didn’t tell me anything.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Viktor asked, shocked.

“Obviously,” snarled Yuri.

“It’s all over the skating newsfeeds,” Yuurika helpfully informed him. “Everyone you asked probably thought you were being sarcastic when you asked.”

“I haven’t seen any notifications,” Yuri glared at her in suspicion. “I checked Viktor’s Instagram manually, but he always posts random junk and never explains anything.”

Yuurika guessed he wasn’t a follower of Phichit’s. “Did you try checking your settings?”

Silently following her suggestion, Yuri discovered his now-charging phone was in flight mode. Upon returning to normal settings, approximately ten billion notifications flooded his screen with a cascade of chimes and dings.

“This is hella more than could’ve popped up since my flight,” Yuri observed.

“You’ve probably left it on airplane mode since that last training camp,” Viktor surmised. It was not out of the question considering Yuri’s track record.

“No wonder it’s been peaceful recently. I thought it was because _you_ left,” Yuri thought aloud.

“I,” an affronted Viktor asserted, “am a joy to be near and bringer of love and peace wherever I go.”

Yuurika declined to comment on that claim. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

“I normally ignore them all anyway. It was surprisingly easy,” Yuri admitted absently, eyes reaming through the walls of text.

“You better let your family know you arrived safely,” Yuurika reminded him worriedly.

Yuri paled, opened the messaging app and quickly composed and sent a brief reply to his grandpa. With that out of the way, he commenced trawling through his skating related newsfeeds (His cat ones would have to wait for now). He found the answer to his search immediately.

“You abandoned skating during the competitive season to coach this dowdy, navel-gazing waste of space!? I’d heard you lost your inspiration for skating, but I never dreamed you’d sink this low,” Yuri exploded. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that his ninja training theory was proven wrong.

Viktor smiled beatifically. “Now you know! While you are making your senior debut, I'll be making my mark on the world of coaching!”

“Well, in that case, I want in,” Yuri said abruptly.

“What?” asked Viktor.

“I want you to coach me,” Yuri stated calmly.

“I beg your pardon?” Yuurika demurred, thrown for a loop by the mood whiplash.

“I've told you I wanted you to be my coach since I first met you training under Yakov,” Yuri addressed Viktor.

“Really? Because I distinctly remember you running up to me, kicking my kneecaps, and bragging you'd land quads a year younger than I did, so I should just keep off the ice and go order a walker, since only old people have silver hair,” Viktor recalled dubiously.

"How charming," Yuurika muttered.

The boy waved them off. "Eh, same difference. Anyway, I don’t care what you told him to get him to come. I've got dibs.” Yuri faced Yuurika squarely, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Be a good sportsman.”

“I'm not,” Yuurika admitted honestly, not bothering to correct his misconception about who exactly proposed coaching to whom.

Yuri couldn't argue with her spoken statement. “An athlete, then,” he amended.

Yuurika bit her lip hesitantly. She recalled a time when she and Yuuko had both claimed dibs. They'd both been absolutely miserable for a week, complete with silent snubs and eating lunch separately, before Yuuko suggested a means of resolution.

“We should fight for him,” Yuurika echoed, reminiscing.

“Then have we got a proposal for you!” announced a young but booming trio of voices.

She’d said that challenge out loud, hadn’t she? “Yabai!” Yuurika doubted the Russian punk allowed takebacks.

“Where did you come from!?” Yuri demanded, preparing himself for Flip to jump out from behind the sliding door.

“We've been here for a while,” said Axel, or maybe Lutz.

“Our sixth sister-sense told us we should come,” explained Lutz, unless it was Loop.

“No pictures, girls,” Yuurika called reflexively.

“We know, Yuuri,” the trio singsonged dutifully as they stashed the camcorder behind their backs. “We just want to help you publicize - I mean organize your contest over Viktor,” Loop if not Axel elaborated.

Yuurika paled. That childhood conflict with Yuuko, incidentally, had been over Nishigori Takeshi (Don't judge - Takeshi had always been nice to her in a vague big-brotherly sort of way, and being family would grant her unlimited access to an ice rink, both of which were pretty much all she looked for in boys at the time. Her feelings had soon evaporated, and no, neither she nor Yuuko ever told him, so don't say anything). Now the living proof of her prior defeat appeared before her to torment her, a moving reminder of her not-so-hot track record.

"What are we competing in?" Yuri asked gruffly. He was sure - with absolute certainty - he’d win.

"Please not rock-paper-scissors, please not rock-paper-scissors," Yuurika pleaded under her breath. She'd lost two out of three lightning rounds that time.

"Skating of course! It’ll have to be in one week in order to get the merch and followers - we mean the ice - ready. We'll call it 'Onsen on Ice: the Fiery Showdown between Two Rivals that will Melt the Rink and Your Heart with the Flames of Their Ardour!"

"I think that sub line is false advertising," Yuurika nixed.

The girls grumbled. "You're no fun."

"And I'll be the judge!" Viktor declared, settling the matter.

"I call mistrial on personal bias," Yuri objected.

"What, you don't trust me to remain impartial?" Viktor looked at him with a hand on his pained heart.

All he received for his protest was an emphatic "No."

"Well, too bad. It's my coaching career at stake, so it's the least I'll agree to. And I know just the programs! You’ll use the two arrangements of the song I’d originally been saving for myself in the upcoming season. I paid for the rights to use them, might as well get my money’s worth somehow,” Viktor said carelessly.

“I’m looking forward to the programs then; I’ve never seen you practice them even once. They must be something really special with all that secrecy.” Yuurika attempted to focus on the sole bright side of the entire mess.

“Well, I haven’t exactly choreographed them yet,” Viktor admitted.

“Are you even more senile than I thought?” Yuri accused.

Viktor staggered back from the blow. “So little faith! Don’t worry, don’t worry!” he assured. “I’ll make it work. You’ll see.”

“If you say so,” said Yuurika cautiously. She yawned, her mouth a pink cavern.

Viktor copied her. “Well, we’ve all had a long day. We should probably turn in.”

Yuurika nodded. Leave tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow, especially when today was actually over by the clock. “Good night.” She plodded towards the shoji.

“Where am I going to sleep?” The belligerent voice stopped her in her tracks.

“I’m sure we can arrange transportation to wherever you have your reservation,” she offered politely, her training as the daughter of a ryokan kicking in.

“What reservation?” Yuri echoed.

Viktor laughed.

Yuurika sighed. “I guess we can make up the upstairs storage closet,” she decided finally, mentally casting over the (now bursting) layout.

“I don’t want to sleep in a ghetto room,” Yuri declared, crossing his arms. He unsuccessfully attempted to hide his dead-tired trembling with a defiant glare.

“It’s not ghetto!” Yuurika defended her inn. “It’s even bigger than my room!”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Yuri retorted (conveniently failing to mention the meager square footage of his own bedroom at home).

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled!” Viktor clapped his hands twice in conclusion. “Good night, Yuuri! Good night, Yuri!”

Yuri emitted an irritated noise from the back of his throat. “That’s hella confusing. You should just call her by her real name.

Viktor wagged his finger at him. “No, no, it’s fine. Yuuri, Yuri. See? They’re different.”

Yuuri and Yuri looked at each other.

“Not really,” Yuri said shortly.

Yuurika disagreed privately - she could discern a little lilt, a drawl, a something in Viktor’s voice when he deliberately lengthened the vowels in her name like a musical phrase that brought happy memories. She hadn’t tired of that something yet (In the private recesses of her mind, she wondered when she would). However, she also wanted to know why Viktor was being so stubborn about this.

Viktor sighed. “I met you both under those names. How would you feel if I just went and changed your name, Yuri?”

He scowled. “Whatever. This way, if anything happens, I’ll have plausible deniability.”

“Hey!” Yuurika objected.

Scandalously late that night, Yuurika woke to her shouted name. Alarmed, she padded to the source, and found herself outside Viktor’s closed shoji. She knocked lightly on the wooden frame. “Viktor! Are you alright?”

The man in question slid the partition open. “Why hello, Yuuri! What are you doing up at this hour?”

_I wasn’t_ , she grumped internally. “You called my name.”

“Yuuri?”

“No. My real one.”

“Oh!” Viktor bopped one closed fist on his other palm. “No, not Yuurika. I said ‘Eureka’!”

Yuurika stared at the crazy foreigner that invaded her house, stole her food, turned her life upside down, and was now in the process of robbing her of her sleep.

“I thought of your programs’ choreography!”

She just blinked at him.

“You and Yuri will be amazed. I amazed even myself, just thinking of it,” he guaranteed confidently.

Yuurika yawned. “Good night, Viktor.”

She turned around and made for her room, jammed her head under her pillow, and tried unsuccessfully to forget the entire past day.


	11. #NoFilter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Viktor once again lives up to his name but ticks everyone else off in the process.

They were amazed.

“So, what did they make you think of?” Viktor asked, drawing up to the rinkside.

Yuri pursed his lips. “Well, that first one, ‘a grape’-”

“Agape,” Viktor interjected.

“Yeah, whatever. That first one was about a goody-goody two-shoes.”

“I… don’t really think that’s true,” said Yuurika.

“It’s about a form of love, the unconditional, platonic sort specifically. And they do say opposites attract. Do you love goody-goody two-shoes, Yuri?” asked Viktor curiously.

“What, like _her_? No way,” Yuri scoffed. “I don’t love anyone who isn’t as great as I am. No one’s as cool as me, except grandpa I guess.”

“Is he a grumpy kitty too?” Yuurika jabbed back.

Viktor laughed. “No, not really.” Recovering, he continued. “A lot of people love what they’re naturally talented in. Is there anything besides skating you’re good at?”

“Anything we’re good at?” Yuurika echoed, affronted.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Viktor backtracked lamely. Yuurika considered that dubious. “I meant, what particular thing do you excel in or enjoy doing besides skating?”

Yurt stonily trained his gaze to the floor. He had experienced Viktor’s idea of fun once. It was awful. It had involved bruised insteps, split seams, and his rabid fans setting the whole escapade to various remixes of Caramelldansen on various gag sites. Outside of that, he didn’t think those two needed to know his berserker-class main’s stat levels in that one MMORPG.

Yuurika hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I was told I should become a professional mold-grower after an experiment in preschool.”

Yuri nodded. “I can see that.”

“Yuri!” Viktor snapped.

“What, she has that kind of face.”

“That’s rude,” Viktor reprimanded.

“I don’t hear _you_ denying it,” Yuri retorted.

“It wasn’t a compliment?” Yuurika asked, confused.

Viktor took a deep breath. “Well, enough about agape for now. What about eros?”

“It’s about a person who’s got it,” Yuri stated.

“‘It’? What’s ‘it’?” Yuurika prodded.

“You don’t even know what ‘it’ is? Pathetic,” sneered the belligerent teen.

“Well I might, but you definitely don’t,” the (only very slightly, currently) more mature woman retorted.

As a matter of fact Yuurika did know ‘it’.

While she knew the Grand Prix final this year was to be held in Barcelona, and she was very excited to experience the city ( _if_ she made it that far, that nagging internal voice reminded her), that competition would not mark her introduction to Spain. During a very chaotic set of semi-finals in her college days, she, Phichit and Celestino had been forced to travel partway by train in order to fly out of airports with conducive weather. Long story short, one night between Renfe stops landed the small party in the city of Sevilla, an oasis of exotic charm where the modern met and melded with the rich history of the region. During their scant free hours between rides, Phichit and Celestino had dragged Yuurika to a bar recommended to them by their hostel, hidden away in an older part of town.

Yuurika could still feel the dampness on her finger from condensate as she ran it over the cool glass pitchers of sangria scattered about on wooden tables. She could still smell the acrid cigarette smoke swirling about over their heads (her nostrils flared, irritated at the mere memory), and taste the soft mouthfuls of the tortilla espanola she so enjoyed during her travels in that country. And even with her eyes closed, she could still see the rolling hips, the sharp tap-taps, the slow but sure curls of the arms of the flamenco dancer as she performed with her musician accompanists, her face set stern but passionate. The flowing lower whirls of her tight black dress mesmerized her audience, their eyes never leaving her commanding form on the stage.

Yuurika had always remembered the dance, so foreign to her ballet training, without ever expecting to see it again. But here it was, right here in Hasetsu, in the guise of this eros routine. Both flamenco and this eros exuded something that Yuurika could definitely identify. It was a burning confidence, a prowess able to pull everyone around to spin within one’s orbit and never let them go.

In short, eros equals swag.

And Yuurika got no swag.

Viktor cleared his throat, effectively interrupting her reverie. “So which routine do you each prefer?”

“Dibs on Eros!” Yuri called, hand extended.

Yuurika wasn’t confident she could perform either routine to her satisfaction - neither really seemed particularly suited to her strengths. But she was even more confident that her embarrassment in even attempting that flamenco-eros would burn a hole in the ice and swallow her up on the spot.

So, “Agape.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know,” Viktor frowned at the pair. “Oh, I’ve got it!”

Their potential-coach slowly lifted his finger for his momentous pronouncement.

“Eenie-meanie-minie-mo…”

Yuri cursed.

Yuurika gaped.

“And-you-are-not-it!” Viktor sang. “Okay, so Yuuri is eros, Yuri is agape!”

“If your stupid random decision makes me lose, I’ll stab you in your sleep with my knife shoes,” Yuri vowed.

Viktor merely laughed at his rage. “It wasn’t random!”

“You just assigned routines that decide who our coach will be with a children’s rhyme,” Yuurika reminded him.

Viktor peered at her intently. “Yuuri, when you use your finger to point to two options and move it according to a set number of syllables, and you can clearly see which option you start with, how many outcomes are there?”

Yuurika could do that math (The answer was less than the number of options).

“That’s… a fair point, but if you already knew what you were picking, why did you eenie-meanie-minie-mo to begin with?”

“To see the looks on your faces right now, obviously,” Viktor explained proudly, ducking Yuri’s water bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Don’t smoke, kids. Smoking kills, and makes Yuurika wrinkle her nose at you. Very nasty. Also don’t threaten to stab people, with knife shoes or other implements.


	12. #Makeover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a great many things are discussed, but katsudon isn't one of them.

“And that’s how we were assigned our routines,” Yuurika summarized.

Yuuko just nodded. “If Viktor hadn’t chosen those assignments, he’d be a bleeping idiot.”

"Yuuko!" Yuurika gasped.

“Anyway,” her best friend ignored her, “What are you planning to wear for the skate-off?”

“Oh, expletive,” Yuri answered for both of them.

"Don't worry, my little Cinderellas!" Viktor sang, bursting into the room, the largest rolling luggage Yuurika had ever seen in tow. "Your fairy godfather has it allll taken care of!"

Viktor spread his arms for applause from his surprised audience. It must have taken too long in coming, as his luggage decided to up the performance factor by exploding their contents on the spectators, like fireworks at a rock concert.

"Ugh," Mari grunted from behind Viktor, a matching case dragged behind her. "How do you fit underwear under these?" She frowned at a particularly frothy article resting on her face.

Viktor pursed his lips, then just grinned silently at her.

"Ugh," Mari reiterated.

Yuri was already scrambling through the scattered costumes. Not this - not this - This one looked good! No, it had buttons, he hated buttons on skating clothes (Viktor’s would sometimes pop off and smack him in the eye. Just him, no one else. Typical). Then this one!

Yuri ran his fingers over it, enjoying the cut and feel of the soft pale fabric and feathers. It looked just like his mage-class fairy-race on his alt account on that one MMORPG. “Dibs!” He yelled.

Yuurika waved at him placatingly in acknowledgement, eyes not leaving the piece she held. It looked so familiar - she remembered, it was from her posters.

“You had long hair when you wore this,” Yuurika recalled aloud.

Viktor glanced over. “Oh, yes. I liked it like that, but it was so heavy when wet. And it burned through so much shampoo, and took so long to wash. And got tangled all the time.”

Yuurika knew that feel from before her skating days. “I hope you donated it?”

Viktor frowned in recollection. “No, I think it was auctioned. For charity though, if that helps.”

“I… didn’t know that.” She wondered how much it went for - out of professional curiousity, of course. Ugh, that didn’t matter now. She refocused her attention on the costume before her. She swished the ebony half-skirt, imagining the ruffles of the flamenco dress in Sevilla. “I’ll use this one!” She decided.

Yuri glanced over - yeah, it would look okay as a backdrop for his to stand out more. He could see one problem with it though. “You’ll have to do a lot of altering,” he warned.

Yurika held up the costume to the light. It absorbed it in its darkness, transmuting it into the brilliant sparkle of the rhinestones scattered about the entire room’s surfaces. “If you mean the length, we’re both going to have that problem with all of these. As far as the breadth in the chest goes, it should work when I apply binding.”

“Are you planning on incorporating the binding as a visible part of the ensemble?” Yuri asked her.

Yurika opened her mouth to scold him, then felt her fingers sinking all the way through the fabric in the pectoral area. She lifted it closer, and finally realized that nearly an entire vertical half of the torso was composed of large-holed mesh.

She blushed.

“We can add a solid backing underneath, Yuri,” said Viktor. “This isn’t _that_ kind of ice show.”

Yuurika hid her face in the fabric.

Later, running through the eros routine, Yuurika hit a snag.

“I don’t know if I’m capable of this, Viktor,” she confided, her previous fears being realized.

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Yuuri. It isn’t all that much harder technically than the routines you’ve been doing - and aren’t you one of the only female figure skaters able to land quads?” Viktor attempted to buck up her spirits.

“During competitions,” corrected Yuurika. She tried not to let it get to her head - at the rate everyone surrounding her improved, that statistic could change any minute. “And I don’t even land them well all that often when competing myself. But I wasn’t talking about that - I meant the presentation part. I don’t think I can skate with eros.”

“Stop selling yourself short. Anyone who can land quads is able to achieve something like skating with eros. Remember, eros is just a form of love. And they say love conquers all and gives you wings. Maybe you jump quads with the power of love already?” Viktor teased her.

Yuurika shook her head emphatically. “It’s the power of friendship, effort, and victory,” she maintained (And repeated attempts to copy Viktor’s own routines with Yuuko, but she’d rather not let him know that just yet).

“I think in that case you’ll have to think of your own type of love, Yuuri,” Viktor asserted, looping lazily across the ice. “Girls like doing that sort of thing anyway, right? Don’t they like planning their weddings years in advance, things like that?”

“Only the ones on Pinterest,” Yuurika retorted stiffly. She didn’t like to be reminded of her lack of current prospects, nor of the battered vestiges of her old planner scrapbook stuffed with passed-down magazine clippings.

But Viktor did have a point. In order to make the song hers, to perform it properly on the ice in her own unique interpretation, she’d have to discover its personal meaning to her; she couldn’t just pretend to be a flamenco dancer with no basis within herself for the act. She’d need something closer to home.

Yuurika thought of her own loves in her life, spending most of her time on and off the ice preoccupied with her discernment. There were her family, cozy in the ryokan and a stable force she could always count on; and her friends, who showed her each day how they appreciated her and why she was thankful to have them in her life. But those loves weren’t the same as eros. Yuurika contemplated what gave her energy (exercising, and perfecting her routines on the ice and ballet) and what made her excited (browsing through her friends’ photos to catch up with their stories, particularly when they were traveling). Those weren’t quite right either. To her, eros was more of a longing, a desire for satiation, for something right before your eyes, so close you could almost taste it on the tip of your tongue with the thought, but that remained out of reach, could never quite entirely satisfy you. For some reason, the sensation felt very familiar. She could almost get an image of what she was imagining - a person, dancing in and out of her memories, clearer from afar and hazy up close, like seen through a camera with the focus broken. Scattered scenes from a ballroom came along with it, but dissipated just as fast as they arrived.

“Mmm…” Yuurika moaned at the low table, twisting about in agitation.

Viktor glanced at her, concerned. “What is it, Yuuri? A tummyache?” He reached to touch her forehead with his wrist.

“No, just thinking about eros,” said Yuurika. Viktor’s arm felt cool and comforting. Maybe her head really was overheating with all the brain-racking she’d been doing.

“With you, they’re probably the same thing,” Yuri observed, shoveling food in his mouth enthusiastically. He was to visit a shrine today to study agape. He had heard they had large bells that you strike with wooden mallets, and was very much looking forward to learning more about that. He hadn’t had the opportunity to pound anything all week (It was a new record since he first shared a rink with Viktor).

Yuurika ignored him. The slight chill on her warm skin reminded her of many memories of when she was younger. Whether it was from romping in the summer sun or the flush of the flu, Yuurika had always sought one thing to cool the heat within her, craving it, needing it, using it to fill the hollowness that pained her.

“Vanilla ice cream,” Yuurika breathed.

“No ice cream for you. Besides, I think you already ate it all that one night,” Viktor reprimanded.

“No, it’s my eros!” declared Yuurika, eyes shining.

“Plain vanilla? Seriously?” said Yuri flatly.

“Okay, let’s go with that. It’s better than mold, at least,” Viktor mediated.

After that, Yuurika threw herself into running through the technical aspects, keeping the new personification of her eros in mind. It wasn’t quite coming together as well as she hoped, but she comforted herself by the knowledge that at least she was making progress.

With their disparate programs, the two rivals rarely had the leisure on the ice to monitor the other’s condition. They had to rely on their communal meals to catch up with each other’s state.

“How was your shrine visit today, Yuri? Did the monks teach you all about the beauty of unconditional love? Do you feel enlightened?" Viktor asked that evening, naked curiosity leaking through his pores.

Yuri glared, rubbing welted shoulders. "Yeah, if hitting defenseless minors with sticks counts as enlightening. Haven’t they banned corporal punishment in this backwards country yet?"

Viktor considered the problem. “Hmm, maybe we should try a waterfall next?”

Yuri had always wanted to visit a waterfall. Whitewater rafting had long been an activity he wanted to try, but Yakov had never allowed it, whether for his safety or for that of the other passengers Yuri was unsure. He tried not to let his excitement show.

“I think you’d better go too, Yuuri. I don’t want to think what would happen if I let Yuri go alone for the whole day.”

Yuurika, finally finished with her meager lunch, looked less than enthused. “Oh, I can’t today, sorry. I’d... turn the water red,” Yuurika tried to explain, frowning in frustration. She could feel the prickle of a rising blush spreading up her neck.

Viktor had heard of this in the documentaries he had watched the night before, as part of his research to be a better coach for the Japanese female skater.

Now that he noticed, Yuuri did look a bit flushed.

“You’d stab Yuri?!” Viktor gasped, wondering if the flush was due to anger (He had watched Yakuza movies).

“What? No!” Yuuri frowned, completely confused by this non sequitur (There were no Yakuza in Hasetsu). “It’s my… time of the month.” Seriously, they’d already been over this once (well, the preview part) just a few days ago.

Viktor, who had a short term memory for things that embarrassed him, placed a hand over his mouth in horror. “Time… for murder?!” Yuri was incorrigible, but didn’t deserve _that_.

“Ugh, just let her go, you idiot,” Yuri groused (Yuri did not know nor care about Yakuza, nor monthly cycles. If he ever met either one, he would just kick them in the spleen with his knife shoes like he liked to imagine doing to most of his potential problems).

Perhaps letting Yuurika off would be best, after all. Viktor mumbled “Okay… see you later,” watching her walk away stiffly. Once she had left, he turned to the younger male remaining. “Do you have any idea what was going on, Yuri?”

Yuri glared at him. “Of course not, old man.” Mila, whose own periods were relatively low in both pain and flow and thus not generally mentioned by her, had very kindly (according to her) impressed upon Yuri the inviolate rule of not questioning girls, particularly when they said or did things that made no sense (After several repeated lessons at her loving hand, he had learned the corollaries that disagreeing with girls is even worse, and that they can smell fear). Either way, Yuri didn’t think much of the incident, considering Yuurika’s wet-blanket nature.

He thought he understood her reaction to waterfalls much better by the end of the day, when he returned sopping wet and bedraggled, raftless, and filled with murderous rage for his idiot of a (potential) coach. Worst. Sidequest. Ever.

So apparently, this whole love thing wasn't coming together for either of them.

The ice cream inspiration was melting, almost as quickly as the triple cone Yuurika once begged for during an obon festival back when she was six (She could barely recall Vicchan obligingly taking care of the mess for her). She just couldn’t _be_ the ice cream, and anyway really, in ice skating on an ice rink, there was only so much ice anyone would stand for. Yuurika did suggest, on the off-chance that Viktor would agree, that perhaps she could get her inspiration back if he let her eat ice cream again, but he merely laughed in her face, patting her back in sympathy.

At the end of her ideas, a final, desperate one surfaced. Hopefully it was just crazy enough to work.

The night before the showdown found Yuurika buzzing the button to Minako’s studio apartment.

The sleepy, slim ballet instructor cracked open the door, clutching her pillow and yawning as if ready to swallow whatever pulled her out of bed.

“This better be good,” Minako muttered.

“Minako sensei, I need your help.”

Minako shifted her pillow until her head rested on it, peering at Yuurika with an intense gaze. “You’re not asking right.”

Yuurika sighed. "Do I have to?"

"You know you do."

"No, I don't really think it’s necessary," Yuurika assessed honestly.

"Then you must not really need my help. Good night." Minako chirped curtly, making as if to swing the door shut.

Panicked, Yuurika stuck out her foot and both hands to intercept. "Wait, wait! Fine.” She sighed again, with a deeper note of resignation this time. “I'll do it."

“You better do it right this time,” Minako warned, pulling out a small object from her sleepwear’s pocket.

“Um…” Yuurika placed her feet apart slightly, and took a deep breath.

“‘In the name of the moon, I will punish you!’” She declared, snapping into the finishing pose, fingers pointed and face aglow with the righteous fury of the pretty sailor soldier.

Her audience didn’t react like a threatened evildoer.

"So adorable, Yuuri!" Minako cheered, snapping pictures from all and sundry angles.

“Can I come in yet? It’s cold,” Yuurika complained.

“Maybe after another impression. Who should I choose? Oh I know, do-”

Yuurika whined, shivering “Senseiii…”

“Oh fine,” Minako grumbled, swinging the door open. “Spoilsport,” she mumbled to Yuurika’s back as she entered the hall and slipped off her shoes. “So, what do you want?”

Yuurika took a deep breath. After the embarrassment she just went through, there was no point in chickening out now. “Minako sensei, I have a plan for tomorrow. But you’re the only one who can help me pull it off.”

Minako perked up. “Really? How?”

Yuurika told her.

“Oh, this _is_ gonna be good,” she affirmed, smirking.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later, Minako was discovered chasing Yuri’s terrified cat while carrying a forehead-sized gold crescent. Sorry, I got carried away there. I don’t own Sailor Moon.
> 
> I don’t recommend binding. I also have no idea how figure skaters fit underwear under their clothes. I am acquainted with one, but it would be way awkward to just go up and ask (I’d have a lot of explaining to do).


	13. #RoseOfHasetsu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is finally skating. Also, dang, Minako.

The next day, Yuri skated with agape for his grandfather.

Grandpa wouldn’t hit him with sticks to bring him to enlightenment, feed him smelly rotting beans (fermented, Yuurika had corrected him, but he knew better), or dump endless liters of freezing water over his head. Make no mistake, Yuri was grateful for this opportunity and was no stranger to long hours of grueling training, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Viktor and Plain Vanilla (and the rest of the Katsukis, and those alarming Nishigori quadruplets, those silent, solemn monks, that one NPC from a week ago, and probably everyone else in Hasestu) were enjoying themselves at his expense. His grandpa would never do that.

And, though he would never have admitted it in front of anyone, it had now been longer than he could ever remember since he was held in the warm security of his arms.

All in all, Yuri's love for his grandfather was deep and abiding, but not quite unconditional. The results bled through his presentation. With his graceful talent, he could have embodied a pure, ethereal seraph with scintillating snow wings swooping over the ice, barely kissing it with his limbs. Instead, his facade occasionally slipped to reveal a newly-fledged cherub, barely concealing his pouty face and tarnished halo.

Yuurika admired his agape rendition anyway.

“I don’t think I can beat that,” she muttered to herself, noting his beautifully held hand positions, the way he flowed from stillness to movement seamlessly like a picturesque breeze, and the way his altered apparel fluidly trailed his jumps like a swan in flight. She nibbled on her nails.

Yuurika might have confused admiration with hyperly self-critical comparison.

Regardless, it was probably time to distract herself. She blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“Viktor, what’s your favourite ice cream flavour?”

“Chocolate,” he said smoothly, gaze not wavering from Yuri’s magnificent pirouettes.

Huh. She’d pegged him as the salted caramel type.

“No, wait.”

No way, she was right!?

“Chocolate and vanilla swirl.”

As Yuri took his leave of the ice amidst enraptured cheers, Yuurika hoped the steam from her heated face wouldn’t ungel her slicked-back hair.

“And Yuuri?” Viktor approached her slowly, carefully, until their knees almost touched.

Her brain short-circuited with a puff of smoke.

His eyes bored into her downcast ones, awaiting some sort of response. Receiving none, Viktor leaned closer. He trailed a finger lingeringly along her jawline, drawing her gaze to his face. "I never let my ice cream melt anywhere but on my lips."

Error, error. Yuurika not found.

“Gotcha!” Viktor booped her on the nose. “That took your mind off things, didn’t it, Yuuri?” He smiled delightedly at her, waiting for a rise. At the lack of reaction, his mirth quickly melted into worry. “You’re not mad, are you? Yuuri?”

“Yes, very, thank you, Viktor,” Yuurika answered the first question, drawn up stiff with swirly eyes.

Viktor laughed in relief and pushed her out on the ice. “Waste not!” he called after her, cheerfully waving.

Yuurika took a deep breath and pushed it all out of her head. This was it. Now or never. Time to break a leg.

As the first strains coiled about her like a snake outlined by her supplely spun arms, she forced her already jarred mind into the new mode from the previous sleep-scant night. With a single flick of lowered lashes, she smirked towards the stands (and the man standing before them).

Whose heart would she make dance?

She knew whose.

While the sharply executed poses and motions lent themselves to the story of the soulful flamenco dancer suggested by the song, there was a new nuance pushing from beneath, something that didn’t quite match the aura of a swirling siren on the Spanish stage. There was something… cocky, something brash and bold, about Yuurika’s performance that clashed with that imagery. Something almost… aggressively masculine.

Many people knew Minako sensei for her ballet career and subsequent instructing. Fewer remembered her from her long-gone glory days, from the stage in the Takarazuka Revue. In a former era, Okukawa Minako was not just a member of that world-revered all-female musical theater troupe - she was a star otokoyaku.

And boy howdy, did Minako got swag.

The previous night, Yuurika cajoled her into imparting all the lessons she could into one night of cram practice. This was in a last ditch effort to try to shock herself into at least acting out eros in a role she felt enough emotional distance from to be able to view herself as other, as not-Yuurika, a new persona on the ice. Minako taught her as efficiently as possible how to walk like a stud, to strut and pivot like a stud, and most importantly, seduce the audience like a stud.

From Viktor’s involuntary wolf-whistle, the hard work payed off.

Each onlooker was sunk in smouldering eyes, that purred that they noticed you hiding there in the crowd, sweet thing, there's no need to stay shy. Come, and drown in us, you and only you. You'll be safe from the world, we'll protect you, we'll be together forever. Until, that is, we happen to spot another delicious innocent wandering all on their lonesome.

Yuurika had broken past flamenco and entered the realm of the gigolo.

As the song drew to a spinning close and Yuurika arched into the final pose (like a gallant caballero with his castanets), the only question was, would the entranced crowd allow her to turn back?

Meanwhile, Yuuko ran backstage, only to find an already changed Yuri savagely unlacing his skates and stuffing them into a previously packed bag.

“Yuri, where are you going?” the small woman asked gently.

“Back to Russia, obviously.” Yuri muttered, eyes downcast.

“But the results haven’t been announced yet.”

“I don’t need to see them,” he bit out. “Even I could see the difference in Viktor’s face. She has… something… that I don’t have.”

Yeah, two somethings, Yuuko thought privately.

“Yuri, I really think you should stay and see,” Yuuko cajoled.

“I know when to make an exit. Dosvidanya.”

She blinked and he disappeared, the back door swinging closed behind him.

Well, there was only one person left she could think of that could convince him. Determined, Yuuko ran back to the rink, where Yuurika was climbing the podium, looking in vain for her fellow competitor.

“Yuuri!” Yuuko called.

Their eyes met. Yuurika took in her friend’s laboured breathing, the urgency in her gaze, and realized everything. She nodded once fiercely, then dashed from the podium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you imagining a Takarazuka Revue (which I don’t own) production of YoI now too? You’re welcome.  
> An otokoyaku is, briefly, a female Takarazuka member who specializes in male roles.  
> I know ‘gigolo’ isn’t really the best word to use here - but it’s both shorter and more fun to say than “guy who is good at flirting.” I’m using it in that definition here, not the technical one which is not a happy nor moral one - actually, I just like listening to that Helen Paparizou song by that title. It’s really catchy.  
> I don’t own the Rose of Versailles (the inspiration for the title).  
> 


	14. #DiamondsAreAGirlsBestFrenemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which wasn't in the TV script. But then again, neither was Yuurika.

Yuri paused and took a swig of the water he had previously stored in his bag for just this event. He looked about at the town, for the last time probably. Well, it hadn’t been _all_ bad. He might miss it a bit, not that he would ever admit it to everyone. It would probably be easier once he left it all behind him anyway; he should be almost to the airport, where he could return to the bland sameness of all the terminals he’d ever been in and forget that Hasetsu even existed. He stashed his drink, shifted his duffel and stepped forward on the tranquil street.

Tranquil, that is, except for the commotion that seemed to be incoming from the rear.

“Yuri! Waiiit!”

Yuri glanced back reflexively. His eyes narrowed as he beheld stupid Plain Vanilla, running towards him, arms flailing, covered in her sleek seducer suit with twinkling rhinestones catching the setting sun. So she noticed, even in her moment of triumph? Well, no matter. He didn’t owe her an explanation.

“Yuri, I said wait!”

“I won’t,” he called, not bothering to turn around. “Leave me alone. I’m going back to Russia, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“But the airport’s in the other direction!”

Yuri stopped.

Yuurika caught up with him finally and rested her hands on her knees, sucking in gulping breaths of sweet sweet oxygen. “And it’s way too far to walk. Didn’t you take a cab or train when you first came?” she wheezed.

Yuri scowled, remembering. Stupid sidequests. Of course he didn’t. “Of course I did,” he lied.

“And what about your cat?”

Yuri facepalmed.

“Yuri, why did you leave?”

Seriously, did he have to spell it out for everyone? “You won. Congratulations. You get Viktor as your coach. I don’t. So I’m going back to mine now. I’ve got a prix to win.”

“But you won.”

Yuri rounded on her, teeth bared in a snarl. “No I didn’t. Stop lying. You won.”

“Well okay, we both won,” Yuurika amended.

“Hah?!”

“Didn’t you hear the crowd’s cheering? It was split evenly between the two of us.”

“Don’t even, Plain Vanilla. This was a contest with Viktor’s coaching at stake. Viktor’s choice is the only one that matters.”

Yuurika’s breaths finally slowed. She stilled and looked the younger boy straight on. “Yuri, skating is for the world. Everyone’s opinion is important.”

Yuri regarded her silently.

“Right, Viktor?”

Yuri looked over her shoulder, and just then noticed that Viktor had now joined him. He was breathing hard, but trying not to show it (and mostly successfully too. That jerk had a knack for appearing perpetually well put together, just as Yuurika always somehow seemed like she had just run slapdash out the door. If only they could share their vibes, they would both approach normalcy. Viewed together, they almost balanced out. How typical).

“Uhh…” Viktor stuttered, his thoughts and eyes clearly straying.

Yuurika gave him a gentle but firm reminder. With her elbow in his ribs. Okay, maybe it wasn’t gentle.

“Right!” Viktor agreed, emphatically. If he coughed for air afterwards, his present company were polite enough to ignore it.

“So, you’ll be staying then,” Yuurika didn’t ask.

Yuri kicked at a pebble sullenly. “If I do, I’ll need a coach.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I can do anything when it comes to skating. I’ll coach both of you, no problem!” Viktor declared with his trademark heart-shaped grin.

“Okay then, I guess,” Yuri acquiesced, dredging up all of the angst in his scrawny body in order to cover up his giddy joy.

“Great, now that that’s settled, there’s only one thing left to do.”

“Go home?” Yuri hoped.

“Yeah, but first, let’s take a new team selfie! It’s what Phichit would do,” Yuurika explained.

“Um, Yuuri -”

“Ugh, get away from me! You’re all sweaty and gross!”

“We both just finished short programs on the ice and basically ran all the way here. You’re just as sweaty and gross as I am.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

There were some curses, and then some spitting, hissing and cheek-pulling.

“You both smell like veritable roses. But more importantly,” Viktor interrupted the squab before him to announce, “Yuuri, you might want to take a look around.”

Yuurika did.

She then noticed they were standing in the midst of the Hasetsu equivalent of the town square, in a quiet, conservative area, filled at this time of day with the sedate elderly, the housewives with children in tow, and the relatively upper crust returning from their places of business, all out and about enjoying the evening breeze. It normally bustled in a slow, subdued sort of way, no one paying particular attention to another, each person part of some predetermined flow, only stopping briefly to exchange greetings or chat about the weather. There was never really reason for anyone to break the pattern, no congregating or staring, no showmanship or spectacle.

Until today, apparently.

Today, everyone and their mother had dropped even the pretense of detachment from their surroundings, peering curiously at the three. No, not at them, Yuurika discovered to her mounting horror. At her, in her black net - and - spandex hugging her every (pitiful) curve, with all the sparkly bits consuming the last sunrays and vomiting them back out in a cacophony of colour.

Her half-skirt fluttered in the breeze as she processed the myriad of stares.

A primordial squeal erupted from depths Yuurika didn’t know she even had. Without voluntary thought, she about-faced and sprinted all the way back to Yuutopia.

Viktor and Yuri just watched her go.

After a beat, Viktor turned to Yuri. “Shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, he began walking. Yuri caught up and strode beside him without a complaint.

“I’m glad this is all settled. It could have gone better just now, though,” Viktor mused aloud.

“You think _that_ was bad? I still have to tell Yakov,” Yuri warned.

“You still haven’t told him yet?!” Viktor exclaimed. “How come he hasn’t been blowing up your phone? Did you put it on flight mode again?”

“No, I blocked him,” Yuri answered shortly. “How come he isn’t blowing up _your_ phone?”

“Oh, I blocked him years ago,” Viktor admitted nonchalantly. “I bet he’s been calling the ryokan to ask for you like he has been for me.”

“Nobody told me,” said Yuri, hurt.

“Hmm, well, you’re pretty scary when you’re mad. Maybe Hiroko told Mari to tell you.”

“Figures,” Yuri muttered, kicking an errant pebble savagely.

Viktor slung an arm about the sullen teen’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. You drive everybody crazy. Yakov’ll probably be overjoyed to hear you’re leaving him.”

Yuri punched Viktor.


	15. #IceQueenBee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are a whole lot of Russians in my Japan. What is this, a Tchaikovsky ballet?

“Well, Yakov wasn’t overjoyed,” Viktor announced, hanging up and returning to the rink where Yuurika and Yuri spelled slow loops across the ice for their warm-up.

“I told you so,” grumbled Yuri, flicking off shavings with his knife shoes. He'd had a long skype chat with his grandfather in secret last night, and kept flicking his long blonde bangs back in his face to cover his red-rimmed eyes.

“Was he beyond ecstatic?” asked Yuurika, back on the topic of Yakov.

“No. He was, in a word, incensed. I could nearly hear all the varied and interesting colours he turned over the line,” Viktor claimed solemnly.

“Really?” asked Yuri, intrigued.

“Yes.”

“No,” corrected Yuurika.

Viktor continued. “Yakov said he couldn’t care less about me, but he had a responsibility to finish what he started and see Yuri’s senior debut through.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Yuurika had to admit.

"If he loses me, he'd lose my sponsorship money," Yuri pointed out.

"He has plenty of that from the rest of his skaters," Viktor countered. "And we both know it would be well worth it to forgo the whole thing if it meant not having to deal with you.”

“You should know, first defector,” Yuri shot back.

Viktor ignored the taunt. “Yakov said if we’ve agreed between ourselves that I’m to coach Yuri, and I’m in Japan, then he’ll just have to coach Yuri in Japan too.”

“What!?”

“I can’t believe he’d be willing to do that.”

"It's just, we're doing just fine on our own. We don't need his help." Viktor crossed his arms stubbornly.

"Careful," drawled Yuri. "Your old is showing."

Viktor stuck out his tongue. "Then you act older than I do."

"This is about my secret, isn't it?" Yuurika asked. "You're afraid he'll find out my gender?"

"That's... a large part of it," Viktor admitted. “The Russian team can be very… intrusive.”

“I don't have a problem with this,” Yuri decided. Double the coaching would net him double the AP, right?

“Remember, if I'm outed, you won't be able to beat me in the senior division,” Yuurika dangled the metaphorical catnip.

“Either way, we don't have much of a choice,” Viktor interrupted. “Apparently, Yakov was already en route when I called. He should be here in a few hours. With Mila and Georgi.”

Yuurika stared at him with wide eyes, then dashed to a bench, yanked off her skates and scampered off to warn her family and assist with the ryokan preparations.

A few hours later, Yuurika (who had been drafted as the one with the best English) greeted the trio, bending deeply at the waist. “Welcome to Yuutopia. I'll do my best to make your stay in Japan comfortable."

"Oh, it's no trouble. We're always up for a change!" said the ever-spunky Mila.

Georgi sighed morosely. "And I wouldn't be able to see Anya, even if we stayed in Russia."

Yuurika briefly wondered if she should know who Anya was. It was so hard to keep up with the latest stars.

"It's not like they were going to be allowed spare time for anything outside of skating anyway," Yakov said tersely. "This way, we don't even have to waste time traveling for meals."

Were they running a ryokan or a skating retreat?

Yakov considered Viktor with a calculated appraisal, like that dog show judge that one time had observed Makkachin (Well, when she wasn't staring at Viktor instead).

“You've lost muscle already, haven't you? You look like you haven't stepped on the ice this whole time,” Yakov told him gruffly.

“Thanks, you too, _fellow coach_.” Viktor beamed back with his heart-shaped smile.

“Yuuri! It’s wonderful to finally meet you! Our little Yuri’s told us so much about you!” Mila gushed.

The referenced Russian vehemently disagreed with this statement. “No I didn’t, hag,” he spat, lip curling.

“It was more in what you didn’t say. You used less expletives than normal,” Georgi explained, his low voice serious. “You always use a lot more for me and Mila and… and Anya. Oh, Anya…”

“I didn't tell _you_ anything. I only texted Mila because she threatened to track me down and haul me back to Russia by the ear if I didn't,” said Yuri, peeved.

“Only because I care.” The named girl reached out to ruffle the shorter boy’s hair. He swatted her hand away. “I always read your texts aloud to everyone at practice. We all want to know what deliciously awkward - I mean unique and exciting things you get up to.”

Yuri muttered something about “invasion of privacy” towards the floor.

“Well, anyway, we’re looking forward to getting to know you better, Yuuri.” Mila grinned.

“Likewise,” Yuurika answered, shyly but warmly. This wasn’t so bad. They were all three friendly without being pushy. She couldn’t see what Viktor was worried about.

It really was a pity. If Yuurika had only waited two seconds to think that, she never would’ve have concerned herself.

“Excuse me, coming through!” Mari shouted, face obscured by a mound of bed linens en route for airing.

Most of the observers later recalled the event like it happened in slow motion.

The edge of a wayward futon clipped Mila’s shoulder, causing her to waver. She tried to right herself, only to snag her slipper on the carpet and tilt forwards.

Both Yuri and Yakov shouted and reached out towards Mila simultaneously. It was a rare occurrence in that they were not yelling at each other. Mila was the only person so far to have accomplished this feat. This, however, marked the first time that she was not the object of their collective ire in the process.

Viktor slowly and deliberately raised his hand, until his palm met his face with a resigned slap. He already knew what was coming.

Georgi blatantly ignored the drama in front of him, instead following the fluffy futons with his eye. He surreptitiously wiped away a wayward tear, recalling Anya’s coverlet they used to snuggle under while watching chick flick marathons (It had had pink roses on).

Mari walked blithely forwards, with no idea of the storm her futons’ flappings had just stirred up.

Yuurika, on the other hand, had no more time for anything but a startled gasp before a petite fire-red topped blur plowed directly into her chest.

 _Squish_.

Mila wouldn’t say she exactly made a habit of it, but she had occasionally found herself resting on other people’s chests before. But generally, the adjectives she used to describe said chests were more along the lines of _firm_ and _toned_ , not… _squishy_. And bouncy. She was pretty sure her face bounced after landing. She let it bounce a few more times as she processed this new information. After careful consideration of the facts, in addition to the entirely unmasculine half-whine, half-squeal she could feel emanating from the person (unwillingly) supporting her, Mila arrived at one conclusion.

“Yuuri, you’re a GIRL?!”

“A girl!?” Yakov and Georgi exclaimed.

“Oh boy,” Viktor sighed.

“She’s a boy?” Georgi asked.

“Expletive,” Yuri summarized. He was done with this nonsense. On to the double XP limited-time event.

###

For some inexplicable reason, with two coaches, Yuri didn't improve faster.

Both aforementioned professionals watched their students glide and twirl and jump in the Ice Castle during practice.

“I can see why you chose to train her, Vitya,” Yakov confided, watching both Yu(u)ris on the ice. “She does have special talent. But she’s hardly the only one. You're going about this all wrong. You have to identify the deficiency, then find a way to supplement it. What does Yuurika have that Yuri does not?”

“An exposure to Japanese culture,” Viktor determined, browsing his mental files for a temple he hadn't tried yet on Yuri.

“Wider hips?” guessed Mila, sliding to a stop between the two men.

“The ability to show compassion towards others?” Georgi drifted up ghost-like and submitted another entry to the rapidly expanding list.

Spinning obliviously in the rink, the two discussed individuals simultaneously sneezed.

“... No.” Yakov fought the urge to tear at his hair. “She has a background in dance. Ballet, specifically.”

“Ohhh,” his three pupils considered this new concept.

“Well, how can we get that for him? Yuuri’s sensei Minako refused to speak to him after he said she looked more ancient than me and asked exactly how old she was,” Viktor worried. “And I don’t know of any better or even available to come here in Hasetsu.”

“... I know one,” Yakov replied grimly. He spent a second standing and looking mournful, then turned and headed to the relative current privacy of the lockers. “I’ll need to check my account balance before I make the call.”

###

“Where is my charge?” A tall, thin woman, made even more so by the tall, thin bun at the tip-top of her long face, swept in the ryokan the next day.

“Lilia, you're here,” Yakov said with some surprise. He hadn't expected her until tomorrow.

“Of course. Never put off until tomorrow that which can be executed today,” the erstwhile prima sniffed.

“Was that a Freudian slip?” Yuurika wondered, quite excited to finally hear one first-hand.

“Lilia Baranovskaya never slips,” Georgi intoned solemnly.

“I wish I could say you look well, Yakov. You've put on even more weight since I've seen you last,” she continued severely.

Yakov, clearly stung by her comment, retorted “And you've lost more, in all the wrong places.”

“They sound like a nagging mother and rude son, or maybe an old married couple,” Yuurika confided to Mila.

“That's because they are,” the Russian girl whispered.

Yuurika glanced at her sharply. “Which one?”

“I will see my new prima now,” Lilia dismissed the elderly coach.

“You called?” Yuri poked his head into the entry hall. Oh great, another old bat; it's like they're swarming, he thought, but in a (very rare) display of good sense (and maybe self preservation), not aloud.

Lilia frowned (or frowned further, if her previously pursed lips didn't count). “ _You_ are not a prima.”

Prima; the root was ‘prime,’ or ‘first’ - like that special event storyline in that one game, where the hero must undergo a transformation at great risk, in order to amass enough power to destroy the monster that obliterated his hometown. Yuri echoed the words the hero spoke at the moving cutscene. "If dedicating my soul is not enough to achieve this goal, take my body also."

"Next time you might want to think about exactly what you're saying before you say it," Viktor advised, joining the party.

"Those are excellent words. And fine resolve," Lilia told Yuri approvingly, completely ignoring Viktor. "We shall begin immediately - after you direct me to the spa."

"The spa?" Everyone but Yakov echoed in confusion.

"Does this establishment not also include a spa?" Lilia queried, eyes narrowing.

"We have an onsen." Yuurika spoke up for the first time in the presence of this intimidating woman.

"Isn't that Japanese for spa?"

"Not... exactly," Yuurika deflected, wary of angering her.

"Do you have any of those cucumber slices?" She asked with great precision.

"No, but they have some lovely bath salts," Viktor offered patiently as one would a consolation prize.

Lilia merely shifted her pinpoint focus to Yakov. "I do not think you were being completely honest with me. As usual."

"I apologize, my Japanese isn't really up to par yet," Yakov obscured his misdeed.

"No matter. You will still be paying me the rate of a spa stay regardless.” Both ignored the fact that it was Yuri’s sponsors, not Yakov, who were fronting Lilia’s fee (Or at least that was supposed to be the case). “This is my life's work. I'm not doing this out of regard for you, Yakov. We're never going to be back together. Nor am I doing this for the amenities.”

Viktor, feeling the need to balance out Yuri's sudden increase of tact with a proportional deficit of his own, joked beneath his breath. “The lady might protest too much.”

It seemed that Lilia's hearing was still as sharp as her sheer towering cheekbones. She merely turned to stare at him.

Viktor suddenly recalled his formative years, when he spent every free waking moment on the ice, the novelty and exhilaration of skating still singing exuberantly in his veins with every cold-clouded breath. During that time, he still remembered how he’d often watch the Zamboni out on the ice, tracking its path with a baleful glare. That fearful (loud, strong, and much heavier than him, then ten of him even) harbinger, though a necessary and temporary evil, filled him with longing and regret for what it took away from him. Every moment spent smoothing the ice was another moment was unable to skate upon it. That was his only ambition, his life-long dream. When he was eight anyway.

But now, deep in Lilia Baranovskaya’s eyes, Viktor could glimpse the vengeful ghost of the Zamboni, risen from the grave of memory.

Viktor gulped.

“N-never mind,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good kids aren’t rude, and don’t ask women’s ages and comment on their body image. Don’t be a Yuri or Yakov.


	16. #NoGoodDeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a great many things which shouldn't be said are, and which should aren't, but a few get discussed anyways.

The combined Japanese - Russian teams soon settled in a comfortable rhythm about the rink. They staggered practices to avoid crowding, but still shared enough rinktime with each other to become more friendly. After a few days, it became almost humdrum to see Yakov shouting red-faced, Lilia sniffing some ballet critique, Georgi moping in dark corners, and Mila benchpressing a yowling Yuri. On the less pleasant of days, simultaneously.

It was on the tail end of just such a day, resting on the shoreline after a run / bike with Makkachin, that Viktor cornered Yuurika into finally discussing her free skate program.

“Oh, I have someone in Detroit I was planning to ask to compose for me,” Yuurika informed him. “Will that work?”

“Sure, sure! That’s great! Are they a friend from university?” Viktor asked conversationally.

"Yes,” said Yuurika fondly. “That is, until she found out I was a girl.” She paused, suddenly grim. “It was awkward."

"Oh?" led Viktor.

"I don't really want to talk about it," Yuurika told him.

Viktor just hummed supportively.

They continued contemplating the sunset, observing the pale tinted spread-frosting clouds dipping low over the ocean while stroking the content pet between them.

After a few minutes of this, Yuurika could stand it no longer. "Why aren't you saying anything?" she blurted, her hand gone still. It was most unusual behaviour for the garrulous man.

"I'm just waiting for you to share about your awkward memory," Viktor explained placidly.

"... I just said I don't want to talk about it," Yuurika reminded him deadpan.

"In my experience, when someone says they don't want to talk about something, if you just wait a bit, they spontaneously start spilling their guts," Viktor admitted.

"Well, I'm not," Yuurika promised.

"Oh."

Makkachin frantically nosed her slacking hand and showered it with doggy kisses. Yielding, Yuurika obeyed the nonverbal plea.

They sat in companionable silence, both savoring the sun on their backs and the seabreeze on their faces, and the warm, undemanding presence just out of sight by their side.

Looking at the sun on the sea, a sudden thought occurred to her. “Viktor / Yuuri, I -”

They both paused.

“Ladies first,” Viktor offered gallantly.

“Oh no, elders first,” Yuurika insisted politely, falling back on her strict Japanese upbringing.

“Elder…” Viktor swiftly shook his head and recovered. “Okay, one of us has to, I’ll go first or we’ll be here all night. Yuuri, what -”

"What are you two doing? Finally realizing it's time to step down and start looking into retirement homes?" Yuri interrupted, popping between them over a whining Makkachin.

"Retirement... homes..." Viktor moaned, face buried in his arms, wilting under the double attack (It was super effective). Yuurika spied some barely-concealed tremors - the melodramatic little diva was laughing!

“It’s time for dinner. I’ll eat yours if you don’t first,” Yuri barked.

Yuurika had to support Viktor all the way back to the ryokan, Makkachin trailing behind with wagging tail. If Viktor stumbled into her side every once in awhile, she was polite enough not to comment on it.

After a drawn-out dinner (Long and exciting - Mila had recently discovered the bitter, burning goodness that was wasabi, and endeavored to share its wonders with her Russian rinkmates by sneaking it into their food when they weren’t looking. Yuri simultaneously discovered he had a cat’s tongue), Viktor and Yuurika found themselves again alone in a comfortable lull.

“Viktor, what were you about to say back there?” Yuurika reopened the prior conversation.

“Hmm? Oh, what was it again? I’m sorry, it must not have been important.” Viktor smiled his heart-shaped grin.

He must have thought better of it. Well, the least Yuurika could do was to afford him the same consideration he had shown her and refuse to pry. “Well, in that case, what _I_ was going to say was that I wanted to make sure you are okay letting me choose my own free skate composition. I mean, I know I don’t have the best judgement. The first time I had to choose, I picked that one hit from Vanilla Ice.”

“Is your song this time going to be like that?” Viktor asked, alarmed.

“No, no! That time, it was mostly because I didn’t know we were choosing music that day, and that was the first name that popped in my brain,” Yuurika reassured him. “Celestino didn’t let me actually do it. Actually, Phichit slapped me upside the head and picked a different one for me.”

Viktor was morbidly curious. “And what was it?”

"He said I should embrace my Japanese heritage and use Smile dk's 'Butterfly'."

"That's... only slightly any better," Viktor harshly judged. Since when was DDR the country's traditional wabisabi style? And how on earth would anyone figure skate to that? Neither knew that Smile wasn’t even Japanese.

"That's what Celestino said. I didn’t do that either. Anyway, are you sure it’s okay to put that much trust in me to choose? I mean, I’ll let you approve or veto it once I receive the music file, but it might put our schedule back if it doesn’t work out, and - “

“Yuuri,” Viktor interrupted her rambling with both hands raised non-threateningly. “As I keep telling you, you have been doing an incredible job in a very challenging arena. Not many people can get as far as you have already. Please have more confidence in yourself.”

“But you’re my coach,” she objected. “You’re too nice and encouraging. I have to consider my career, after all.”

“Don’t think of it like that,” he told her, voice low and comforting.

“See? That’s what I was talking about,” Yuurika mumbled. “It’s your job to make me feel confident, even if I have no right to be.”

Viktor spread his hands flat on the table. “Well,” he sighed, rising and brushing nonexistent dust from the back of his pants, “If you can’t believe what I tell you, from now on I’ll just have to show you with actions.” He smiled softly at her. “Good night, Yuuri. Sleep well.”

“Good night,” she echoed numbly. Yuurika suddenly realized her friends and family had been doing that all along, but no one had ever gone and just _said_ that to her before. It didn’t seem quite real (And it was far from unwelcome).

The impossible feeling dogged her all the way to next morning’s practice, as she dazedly watched Viktor lace up his skates (It was an increasingly rare treat for him to take to the ice alongside her) at the rinkside. He was so much taller than her (Who wasn’t? she thought bitterly, pointedly not counting Yuri); it was a rare chance to observe the living legend from a higher vantage point. It felt strange - from this perspective, looking at the top of Viktor’s silver-sheened head, he appeared no larger or older than Yuri. It was like he was regressing before her eyes, a mirage, a fantasy she’d only dreamed was her coach. She took recourse in the reflexive human reaction to the unknown or uncertain - she reached out and poked it.

The shock was immediate.

Back in Detroit, Yuurika had taken a semester in electronics, and had spent an entire lab period along with her fellow students fiddling with a breadboard. After untangling the red and black and yellow cords with alligator clips and near-nanoscopic LEDs, they’d taken turns assembling different circuits and recording various currents and voltages across them. During her turn, Yuurika somehow manage to low-key electrocute herself (The teacher had thought that was virtually impossible for anyone with a modicum of sense, but that’s our Yuurika: making history by landing quads and getting electrocuted by benign lab breadboards). It was so swift and subtle that she almost missed it, but the jolt left an undeniable imprint on her elevated heartrate, her senses tingling with fight-or-flight adrenaline. Her body hadn’t even registered the current arcing through her before it fled her system, but her mind continued to process the close call for several minutes afterwards.

Touching Viktor’s hair part felt a lot like that, except this time, her body told her to jump back, but her mind (or maybe something even deeper and more basic) said to stay. Either way, it was electrifying.

Did Viktor feel it too? She finally allowed her gaze to drop beneath the starlight swirls to check.

Watery eyes gazed at her in mute betrayal. “What was that for? Satisfied that my hair is natural?”

“I just… wanted to make sure you were real,” Yuurika tried and failed to explain her gaping logic.

“It’s one hundred percent real!” Viktor affirmed loudly, with sniffling.

“And I will one hundred percent kick your prehistoric behind if it doesn’t get out of my way so I can start practice,” Yuri declared just as vehemently.

Hurriedly, they moved out of his way.

###

All too soon, the time came to choose their themes for the season. As the elder of Viktor’s pupils, Yuurika presented hers first. She had agonized long and hard, and finally chose a theme shared by both her programs, one a twisted, possessive form, the other warm and grateful.

“No fair Plain Vanilla! I was going to use that,” Yuri whined.

You snooze, you lose. “Just use the inspiration for your free skate,” Yuurika suggested.

“I don't think blind rage as a theme would go over with sponsors very well,” he muttered.

“What are you so angry about?” Viktor asked.

Yuurika wondered too. Yuri had the talent, the opportunity, the coach (or three). What did he have to be upset about while skating?

Yuri just shrugged. He always had something to be angry about.

“Well, you can always share a theme,” Viktor mitigated. “It would raise interest, to say the least. Two Yuris on love.”

“Sure, maybe, why not,” Yuri accepted, yawning. “I’ll do it better anyways.”

Yuurika remained silent.

“What, Plain Vanilla? Nothing to say? You’ve already realized you can’t win against me?” Yuri needled.

“Hardly,” Yuurika shot back, but without her usual acerbic bite behind it.

Much later after another long practice, Yuurika skated towards her coach, who was waiting for her, arms folded tranquilly, at the barrier. “Viktor!”

“Yes, Yuuri? You ready to wrap up? Yuri and the rest already headed down to the onsen.”

“I know. There’s something I wanted to ask you.” She took a breath. “You said you knew Yuri’s grandfather, right?”

“Yes,” Viktor responded, unsure of the intent behind the inquest.

“I was just wondering, what is Yuri’s home life like? I mean, after this morning, and thinking about how he acts and how he just picked up and moved to Japan on a whim like that, I was just....” Yuurika trailed off, eyes downcast and rubbing the top of the worn half-wall, afraid of having intruded where she wasn’t wanted.

“Worried?” Viktor finished for her gently. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Yuuri.”

“I don’t want to pry,” she clarified.

“And neither do I,” Viktor stated simply. She glanced up at him. “I actually don’t know much myself,” he continued, “though I know his grandfather is a good man and looks after him beyond well. Since I know he has at least one trustworthy adult with him, I feel confident in his safety. But as far as his parents… I actually have no idea.”

Yuurika bit her lip.

“I do the only thing I can - I try to look out for Yuri just be being available, by being open and honest with him, about my life, about how I think of him, so that he can know he has someone he can run to if he needs it. It’s fine if that transparency is unreciprocated. My relationship with him is not dependent on that.”

Yuurika wasn’t sure if such a relationship fell in the category of father or friend or older obnoxious spacy frat brother, but she supposed it worked for both of them. It was a start, anyway. “I just hope I haven’t been too hard on him,” she confided.

“Honest, you mean,” Viktor chuckled. “Hardly. He knows how nice you are, how you care for him. Actually, I think he’d be hurt if you stopped; he probably would assume you didn’t see him as a worthy rival anymore.”

Yuurika inhaled deeply. “If that’s the case, I better make sure I qualify as Japan’s representative.”

“That’s the spirit!” Viktor affirmed loudly, clapping her on the back.

“Ow,” complained Yuurika.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Vanilla Ice or Ice, Ice Baby, or Smile dk or Butterfly.


	17. #BoyToy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuurika messes up, Viktor gets shafted twice, and Yuri enjoys it a bit too much (until he gets a taste of his own medicine). Oh, and the kohai finally gets noticed.

“Oh my goodness, it’s Katsuki Yuuri! Yuuri sempai’s here! Yuuri sempaiii!” Minami Kenjiro jumped up and down, squealing and waving.

Yuurika noticed him from across the rink and returned his wave, reservedly but warmly. She looked around, sniffling in the dry air.

The Japan qualifiers were a madhouse this year. While it did seem like interest in skating was slightly rising with each year, it was unlikely that this sudden influx of spectators could be attributed to solely that. Yuurika deeply suspected that the main draw was standing in front of her, a peculiarly wrapped box in his outstretched hand.

“Tissues?” Viktor offered, presenting the Makka-box with a little “Bow wow!” thrown in.

Viktor could tell the crowds had rekindled Yuuri’s latent nerves. As her coach, he should do something about it. Something to reassure her. But he didn't want to throw her off. Skaters' hearts are made of glass, after all. "Hug, Yuuri?" Viktor asked soothingly, voice dipped low.

"Mm," Yuurika nodded.

Viktor closed his eyes, heard her shift closer, and wrapped arms about -

Nothing.

Her back towards him, Yuurika squeezed the furry tissue box like a lifeline. With a contented sigh, she relinquished the poodle-covered package to Viktor, glided out, and made him proud with her short program formal debut.

They wandered the halls in the break between the short and free programs. Viktor couldn’t help but notice the admiring glances thrown her way by all the Japanese skating hopefuls.

"You're so good with kids, Yuuri,” he teased, enjoying her self-conscious blush.

"Eh heh heh," Yuurika laughed, gazing to the side deprecatingly. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go say hi."

"Sure," said Viktor magnanimously. "I ought to take care of a few things anyway. I'll meet you here in a few minutes."

Yuurika watched him wander off, then cautiously picked her way towards the little mustard-blonde with the ketchup stripe, perky hair popping up behind the crowd.

“Hello, Minami-kun,” Yuurika waved shyly.

“Yuuri-sempai! You’re here! I’m talking to you! You know my name!” The boy positively quivered with barely-restrained tension.

“Of course I remember you,” Yuurika smiled. In all honesty, she had remembered his existence (mostly his hair), not his name - until the triplets had reminded her before this competition. Apparently, they had compiled and printed their own in-house set of ice figure skater trading cards.

The pair were interrupted by a small but insistent buzzing.

Yuurika’s eyes tracked the fly’s every twist and turn. "Here, let me get that for you," she offered graciously.

"I-it's weird for a fly to be in a cold place like an ice rink, isn't it?" Minami held still obediently, craning his head to watch Yuurika stalking her prey.

"Well, they do like sweet things," she replied absently. The cocky insect didn’t know it yet, but he was no match for her. She’d taken the lessons from the Karate Kid to heart, and was confident in her skillz (She could also wax a mean car).

The fly, who had avoided her hand with a fiendish persistence, bet everything in one last vertical swoop. Yuurika was too quick for him. "Ah, here we go!"

She stunned it with one last loud slap.

Right on Minami's bum.

Both participants (and several onlookers with cameras apps primed and loaded) held a few moments of silence for Minami's innocence.

"Uhh..."

Minami just stared at her with eyes as large as dinner plates.

"It's his fault!" Yuurika deflected, pointing down the bleary insect’s escape route, which was coincidentally now occupied by the returning Viktor.

"What did I do now?" he asked curiously.

Minami just whimpered.

The concerned coach rushed forward immediately. "Yuuri! Did you make a little boy cry?"

"No, like I was saying, it was him-"

"Like hell, Plain Vanilla. I just got here," Yuri loudly asserted, popping up in the spot Viktor had just vacated. "And how dare you blame this on me. I came all this way, out of the kindness of my heart, just to cheer you on so Georgi can't claim I never support my rinkmates-"

"How altruistic of you," Viktor muttered under his breath.

"And here you are framing me for an assault on your competitor. Typical."

"A-assault?!"

"It's okay," Minami interrupted, mumbling and rubbing his eyes. "I was just surprised is all."

"... You forgive me?" Yuurika asked hopefully.

"Mm-hm!" Minami beamed at her, blinking away his tears. His determined cheer only made her feel worse about herself.

"Way to go, Vanilla. Hope you didn't scar him for life right before his big show," Yuri said encouragingly.

Yuurika just groaned.

She thought about it all through her ensuing free skate debut. She was a horrible person. Even the rinkside agreed with her assessment, as during one point in her routine it reached up and bashed her in the face.

As she drew up, muscles taut in her final position, she blew in and out through grit teeth. She attempted with great slurping sniffs to suck the blood leaking copiously through her nostrils back inside where it belonged.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the loudest of them from the high registers of her fellow competitors. She relaxed to hold her arm over her nose. Apparently, her free skate was also well received. That was good.

Viktor waited for her at the kiss-and-cry to receive her scores. “Great job, Yuuri!” he enthused, opening his arms. Bewildered, Yuurika mimicked his posture. His face blanched as he finally saw her nosebleed, now caking disgustingly on her upper lip. He cringed. “No hugs for you, you unsanitary slob. I hope you aren’t expecting me to help you wipe that up, after what you pulled earlier,” he pouted, tossing her the Makkabox.

"I wasn’t,” protested Yuurika, stuffing several tissues up her nostrils. Was he still mad about inadvertently framing him for the fly-slap?

Despite the whack to the nose, she placed first in total scores; it was a huge relief for both of them. After cleaning up in the restrooms, she was met with a visibly vibrating Minami.

“That was amazing, Yuuri sempai! I was so moved!”

“Thank you, Minami-kun,” Yuurika responded simply.

“I’ve admired you for so long, you know! I knew you would place first! I can’t wait to see you win gold at the Grand Prix!”

“You can count on it,” Viktor declared, walking up and recognizing two of the phrases uttered in the midst of the Japanese.

Minami switched politely to passable English.

“This is like a dream come true. I’ve always strived to be upright yet sensitive, strong yet humble, silent yet caring like Yuuri sempai. And you even always smell nice! It’s so refreshing!”

“I think he means your shampoo,” Viktor whispered.

Yuurika sniffed self-consciously. She always switched to using Old Spice body wash before competitions, to blend in with the rest of her rivals (and to Smell Like the Man Your Man Could Smell Like), but she didn't want to give up her rose-scented shampoo, dangit.

“Anyway, I just wanted to ask, if it’s not too much trouble… please sign this!” Minami bowed, proffering a glossy 20 x 30 cm print of his idol.

Instantly, the other contestants joined the frenzy.

“Me too!” “Please sign my water bottle!” “My wristband!” “My face!”

“Face…?” Yuurika mouthed soundlessly.

“We all admire you so much,” Minami explained, beaming. “To us, you’re the ultimate figure skating role model of Japanese masculinity.”

“Right, masculine,” Yuri scoffed, listening in while safely offset from the fray.

Yuurika stuttered.

Viktor leapt to her rescue. “Anyone want my autograph?” he asked, cheerfully uncapping a permanent marker he plucked from his pocket.

The crowd of the best and brightest, the hope and pride of the future skating world, appraised him consideringly. “No,” they decided. He was old news to them now, after all.

Viktor reeled back in silent horror.

“Ha! Rejected.” Yuri openly relished (one of) his coach’s discomfiture.

“Yuri Plisetsky!?” The mob suddenly acquired a second target. They began clamoring in rough English.

“Sign my jacket!” “My program notebook!” “The other side of my face!”

Yuri recoiled. “What the hell?!”

Minami hung back next to Yuurika and Viktor. “You can sign this corner here if you want,” he said pityingly, slipping Yuurika’s now wet-inked publicity photo to the repeat world figure skating champion.

Stifling a sob, Viktor accepted.

###

"Well, now that we've all witnessed your popularity with the young generation, it's time to see how well you fare with the press," Viktor announced.

Yuurika checked her phone calendar. "Oh, the season's theme announcement! But it should go well; the media loves you."

"Oh, I won't be there," Viktor broke the bombshell. "I have some administrative things to take care of, and this will be a good chance for you to gain a reputation with the press for your own charisma."

"It's because you don't know Japanese, isn't it," Mila prodded.

"...Maybe that too," Viktor admitted, shamefaced.

"Okay," Yuurika agreed faintly. "How hard can it be?" She'd always had Celestino, not to mention Phichit, at her back previously every time that she'd posted publicly on social media, not to mention attended press conferences (Apparently posting how she was looking forward to new spring skirt designs was off-limits). She'd felt grateful, even if she considered it a bit excessive, but it was high time she stood on her own two feet. This was a good chance to do just that. And what could possibly go wrong at a simple press conference?

After the teams saw Yuurika off, Yuri watched Viktor meander back to his room with narrow eyes. His door remained shut for over an hour, his hushed voice emanating from beyond the thin shoji. A conference call, he guessed. He’d never really paid attention before, but he realized coaches must have to both instigate and endure a lot of those, among numerous other responsibilities. He wondered when Yakov found time for that - he knew he had a separate publicist, but still. Yuri felt a certain uncomfortable feeling growing - gratitude? Guilt? Gas? He didn’t know, and determined it didn’t matter. They were all fortunate to get the chance to coach him, and he’d prove it to them and everyone else with the coveted gold at the Grand Prix. So there.

Soon, the time for the press conference arrived. The entire team(s) assembled in the common room in front of the tiny television, within which Yuurika sat quietly in the background, waiting for her cue. Yuri glanced surreptitiously at Viktor.

He was staring thoughtfully at the now standing (and fidgeting) girl on the screen, declaring her love (on ice! As a theme, that is) to the audience. "Has no one taught that girl how to wear a men's suit? You can't stuff things in the breast pocket."

"I remember cleaning that suit," Mari piped up. "It doesn't have any breast pockets."

Silence reigned in the Katsuki living quarters, punctuated only by the scattered claps tinnily echoing from the cheap television speakers. Which were suddenly punctuated by a soft yip as Yuurika finally glanced down on screen. Those gathered watched as she hurriedly excused herself with a polite grimace and closed the small press conference.

“I can tell we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us before September,” sighed Viktor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Karate Kid or Old Spice.


	18. #CinnamonRoll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I couldn't help myself. Sorry, Guang-Hong.

“I can't believe it’s September already! Time sure flies. And just think, we're about to see Viktor!” American skater Leo de Iglesia exclaimed. Besides visiting his closest skating friend in his homeland, it was the part he had most been looking forward to in China.

“Yes! I've looked up to him for so long,” Guang-Hong Ji raved fervently.

“Who hasn't?” Leo enthused. “But, you know, he's always seemed a bit…”

“Mature?” Guang-Hong suggested.

“Yes, in more than one sense of the word,” Leo affirmed. “I've always been afraid to get too near him. It's like he'd influence you just by breathing the same air.”

“I generally feel that way more around Christophe,” Guang-Hong confessed.

“That’s true. No one’s like Christophe,” admitted Leo. The two boys shared a short chuckle.

"I wonder how Viktor's influenced Katsuki Yuuri," Guang-Hong wondered.

"Yeah, good question." Leo turned the corner towards the locker rooms. "I can't wait to see what he's like now."

"Yuuri's always felt so different from Viktor. Not that I mean he isn't talented," Guang-Hong waved his hands agitatedly. "He just always seemed more... approachable, I guess? More..."

"Wholesome," his friend finished. "He's like the dictionary entry for honesty. I've always liked talking to him. It feels safe."

Finally at the locker room, Leo made to push open the heavy door.

"Hey, wait!" A leopard-print hoodied figure suddenly blocked his way. "You can't go in yet!"

"Why not?" Guang-Hong blinked up at Yuri.

"It's alright, Yuri," Yuurika announced quietly, slipping through the door. "Thanks for waiting out here for me."

"Took you long enough," he grumbled, slipping his earbuds back into his pocket.

"Hey, Yuuri!" Leo held up a hand in greeting.

"It's good to see you and Yuri again," Guang-Hong added softly.

"Leo, Guang-Hong! It's been awhile," Yuurika smiled with real affection at the younger skaters.

"'Sup," said Yuri shortly.

"I didn't know you'd be here," Leo addressed the shorter Russian.

Yuri rolled his eyes. "Blame Viktor."

"Viktor decided that from now on we have to cheer each other on at away meets," Yuurika explained.

"Did you just get here?" inquired Guang-Hong politely.

"Yes, we're actually just about to join Phichit for dinner," Yuurika told him. "I just stopped here to change. Would you like to join us? I'm sure Phichit would be more than happy, and Viktor will be there," she dangled knowingly.

Two pairs of adoring eyes sparkled like supernovas.

"Sure," they breathed in synchronization.

"Great! See you soon," Yuurika promised, leaving them with a satisfied smile.

"Oh, wait! You dropped this," Guang-Hong called after her.

Yuurika turned to look at the item he held in his hand. She stiffened.

"What is it anyway?" Guang-Hong observed it curiously from various angles.

Leo stared, saying nothing.

"I, um," Yuurika ran out of excuses.

"Must be Mila's," Yuri threw out there.

Mila, summoned by her name, popped her head over Yuri's shoulder. "What's mine?"

"Oh, it's yours?" Guang-Hong turned towards her with the contested article.

Mila frowned. "No, mine don't have flower appliqués."

"Are you sure?" Yuurika asked desperately. "Maybe it got mixed up in the luggage when packing?"

"I don't think so," said Mila. Yuri discretely kicked one of her ankles. "Ow! What was that for?"

"It was stashed in Plain Vanilla's bag," Yuri explained with grit teeth.

"Ohh! You're right, how could I not have recognized it! I must have thrown it in your duffel by mistake Yuuri; you know how our bags look alike."

"Well, I'm glad I found it," Guang-Hong said modestly, handing it back to Mila. "I've never seen one of these before; what are they used for?"

Mila simply could not help herself. "It's a type of traditional clothing. They’re not as popular as they used to be, so I'm not surprised you haven't seen one, but... you wear it on your head, like a bonnet."

"Mila, don't lie to him!" Yuurika chastised.

"Lie?" echoed Guang-Hong, confused.

Mila focused on the unsuspecting skater. "What Yuuri means is that it's only worn that way in Russia. In Japan, they wear it over their eyes, like goggles."

"Isn't it hard to see through?" Guang-Hong asked, concerned.

"They have ones that are more transparent for that, made with lace and things," Mila twisted.

Leo choked.

"Do they use them in the States too? Where do they wear them?" the Chinese youth asked his friend innocently.

"Buh," Leo answered eloquently.

"Oh, in America, they’re more an accessory. Sometimes they use them as slingshots."

"How resourceful!" Guang-Hong marveled.

"Seriously, Yuri, stop her," Yuurika begged.

Yuri never stopped tapping on his phone (This boss was tough, and his backup right now was useless). "I never get between Mila and her prey." He paused for a beat. "Not anymore."

"It looks like a lot of craftmanship was put into it," Guang-Hong noted, peering at the article Mila had just handed back to him for inspection. "I wonder if they were ever used in China."

"I've heard they were once hung outside like flags," Mila confided. "It would be so culturally sensitive of you to reintroduce the tradition."

"What a good idea! Do you know where I could get one?" Guang-Hong shone with excitement.

"I could show you a few good places," Mila suggested.

"No!" Leo reached out to shield Guang-Hong's innocence.

"Hello, everyone! Are you ready for dinner?" Viktor appeared behind them. "Hello, boys! Why is Guang-Hong feeling a bra?"

"I wonder if Anya wore a bra like that one," Georgi mused with a melancholy air. He had, of course, never actually seen nor cared about Anya's bra. He'd been far too preoccupied staring soulfully into her fathomless eyes.

"Did your ex-girlfriend wear traditional Russian headgarb too?" Guang-Hong inquired solicitously.

Georgi was thrown by this egregious non sequitur. "What?"

"Anyway, Phichit said the last one there's paying," Viktor announced.

"Guang-Hong, who wrote your name on the ceiling?" asked Mila, pointing.

"Where?" the gullible child asked, craning his head.

Mila was already pelting down the hallway, whooping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I readily admit that this is unrealistic and doesn’t really advance the plot, but I couldn’t help myself. Sorry. I didn’t want to leave Leo and Guang-Hong out of the fun.  
> That bra-mistaken-for-slingshot bit was in the Beverly Hillbillies, which I don’t own (I can’t believe I just referenced the Beverly Hillbillies in anime fanfiction. I am heartily ashamed of myself).   
> Good kids don’t lie, and don’t offer to take innocent boys into lingerie stores (Don’t worry, Mila wasn’t actually intending to do that, she just enjoyed everyone in the know’s reactions).


	19. #BFFs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the girl's friend and the prospective boyfriend size each other up, but the girl remains oblivious.

"Where's Celestino?" Yuurika asked at dinner, after glancing about the premises unsuccessfully. She’d suddenly realized that she’d pulled a Yuri (and Viktor) and neglected to tell her former coach that she was no longer his student (Though she was certain that Phichit had done an even better job at breaking the news than she’d ever hope to, so she wasn’t particularly worried).

"Ciao-ciao's looking for a spot for the car. He doesn't trust valet parking, you remember, not after _that_ ," Phichit hinted, with a conspiratorial quirk of an eyebrow.

"Oh, that's right," Yuurika laughed, in on the joke.

“So,” Viktor asked conversationally, “how long have you known?”

“About Yuuri? Since the day we met,” Phichit said proudly. “Right outside our dorm.”

“You shared a dorm room?” Viktor asked, surprised.

“Well…” Yuurika didn’t deny it.

“It’s a pretty good story, actually,” Phichit confided, eager to share.

Flashback to after Yuurika’s first international competition, during enrollment in university in Detroit -

“So this is Yuuri, your new rinkmate. Yuuri will be rooming here. Say hello,” urged Celestino outside the modest campus building.

“Hello,” Yuuri whispered.

Phichit smiled encouragingly at the petite, finger-twiddling dark-haired freshman hiding behind thick blue glasses. A shy type. He could work with that; Phichit was nothing if not welcoming.

“Hello, Yuuri! Looking forward to getting to know you! Do you like the King and the Skater?” he asked loudly yet gently. Best to take the initiative in the conversation, and find some common ground (It wasn’t because that’s what he asked every prospective new friend; no, of course not).

“Yeah…” Yuuri mumbled, finally looking higher than the concrete slab below their feet. Progress! Maybe they could get to eye contact within the week!

“I know it’s cliche since we’re skaters, but I really like the character development of Arthur and the king, and how their camaraderie develops realistically into a strong bond by the end. They use the magical elements sparingly to support that, and weave in the political intrigue just enough to add weight to the story. And of course you can’t forget their clear respect for the classics in how they composed and performed all the musical numbers,” Phichit confessed, the words tumbling out.

“Yeah, me too,” Yuuri affirmed honestly.

(Yuurika’s personal favourite parts were the strict attention to detail in the time travel subplot, the atmospheric sets, the sleek mecha designs with surprisingly well-done animation considering the budget and without overreliance on CGI, and the sensitive portrayal of the tsundere childhood friend. She would have been tempted to ask if they were even talking about the same movie, but she knew just how crammed full of disparate genres the film was. At least Phichit hadn’t said his favourite part was the children’s card game tie-in; she never could remember its rules).

“Oh good!” Phichit grinned at her sunnily. “I’ve got lots of posters I’m planning to hang up!”

“... I have figure skating ones,” Yuuri shared, gaze still skittish. It was adorable, just like one of Phichit’s hamsters. Phichit wanted to squeeze him and reassure him that he was safe and with a friend, but he was afraid he'd also go stiff and glassy-eyed (The hamsters got better). He hoped he’d be able to snap a photo at least.

“Oh, the female skaters’ posters? I’ve heard the Sara Crispino ones are in high demand, since they’re so rare; there always seems to be some malfunction in printing,” Phichit asked to just make conversation.

“No, male,” Yuuri corrected him.

“... Oh?” repeated Phichit blankly, not wanting to jump to conclusions. He hated it when people made assumptions about him, such as that he must be an avid Snapchat user just because he enjoyed social media.

“Yuuri’s a girl,” Celestino explained offhandedly. “Her full name is Yuurika.”

“What?” asked Phichit, very surprised.

His reaction alarmed Yuurika. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh, he’s probably just nervous sharing a room with a girl,” Celestino explained.

“What?!” Yuurika squeaked.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Celestino looked at her strangely. “The school thinks you’re a boy based on your figure skating scholarship application with your international placement listed. They wouldn’t let someone they thought to be a boy room with a girl.”

“With good reason! That’s exactly what’s going on here!” Yuurika wailed ineffectually.

“Um, guys,” Phichit tried to interrupt.

“I know that this will be difficult and awkward for you, but I trust you both and know you’ll behave like mature adults even when unsupervised,” announced Celestino very irresponsibly and wrongly (in multiple but innocent ways. The … unintentional incidents that campus endured afterwards, most notable among which was that one event with the flashmob and a certain very important personage, were legendary, but that was mostly Phichit’s doing and Yuurika an unwilling participant slash accomplice, and thus not technically part of this story).

“This really isn’t fair or right, not just to me but especially to Phichit-kun,” Yuurika protested with tears in her eyes. It wasn’t every day she arrived in a foreign country with promises of a full-ride scholarship to find it tied to living with a man she’d never met. She wondered how long it would take to find an apartment for a comparable cost (Years later and she still wouldn’t be able to give you an estimate).

“Seriously, guys,” Phichit retried.

“What!?” Both whirled on him.

“Sheesh,” muttered Phichit. _Some_ people were on edge. “These dorms have separate rooms.” He gestured behind him - ‘Phichit Chulanont’ and ‘Yuuri Katsuki’ were clearly labeled in cheerful markered cardstock on adjoining outer doors. “The only room we share is the communal kitchen.”

Yuurika’s trembling lips formed a quiet but relieved “Oh.”

“Really?” Celestino frowned. “I didn’t realize individual rooms were in the skating sponsorship's budget. I wonder how much extra that cost.”

“Celestino!?” Yuurika gasped desperately.

“Ciao-Ciao, don’t tease her,” Phichit reprimanded.

“I wasn’t,” answered Celestino guilelessly.

End flashback -

“And the rest, as they say, was history,” Phichit concluded.

“So you weren’t even suitemates, much less roommates,” Viktor clarified.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Phichit agreed amicably. “I just like calling us that to embarrass Yuuri and Ciao-Ciao.”

Yuurika looked around the room. Yuri sat sandwiched between Georgi and Mila, occasionally tearing himself away from his phone. Georgi was browsing the menu, releasing soulful sighs at regular intervals (Anya loved Chinese. Takeout, specifically, but he could work with what he had). Mila chatted animatedly with the American and Chinese across the booth from them. Leo sat looking traumatized from an hour ago, and tried to shield Guang-Hong from everyone else's demoralizing influence.

“Anyone want refills?” Phichit asked rising.

“I’ll go with you,” Yuurika offered hastily.

They walked companionably to the counter.

“I still haven’t forgiven you, you know,” she confessed, depressing the ice switch on the soda dispenser.

“For what?” Phichit’s eyes widened in alarm.

“For what you taught those Nishigori sisters.”

“Ah ha ha! You’re talking about that video, aren’t you? The one that started it all!”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Yuurika asked acerbically.

Phichit leaned close to whisper. “I know how you think, Yuuri. But even you’ve got to realize, it didn’t only benefit you. Everyone can tell. _Someone_ ’s got his inspiration back.”

Yuurika glanced back at Viktor worriedly. For the briefest instant, she thought she discerned her frown mirrored in Viktor’s puckered forehead. Before she could be sure, the foreboding look disappeared, chased away by a megawatt, eye-crinkling grin.

“Maybe, but I don’t know what I’ve had to do with it. I’d like to think I did, though. He’s inspired me for so long,” Yuurika confided in a low voice.

“I wish you’d realize exactly how much you do. And that you’d show everyone what you’re truly capable of. Well, you’ll get the chance tomorrow. That is, if you can hold your head up after watching my amazing programs this season,” Phichit challenged with a good-natured smirk.

“I bet they’re perfect, Phichit. I can’t wait to see them,” Yuurika smiled up at her friend.

The corners of Phichit’s lips appeared to have trouble deciding whether to turn up or down. “Thanks, Yuuri, but that’s not your line. You’re supposed to tell me that your programs will blow mine out of the water. Or off the ice, if you wanted to go in for puns.”

“Oh, sorry,” apologized Yuurika sincerely.

Phichit laughed at her embarrassment and clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s both give it our all in Beijing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to know more about that flashmob and the VIP? Then head on over to the story Hashtag Y So Extra and check out the chapter [#Extracurricular](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11286867/chapters/25248528)


	20. #JungleDuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuurika's life is a flaming mess.

Yuurika kept her part of Phichit’s bargain in the short program - she skid in with a barely top score. She wasn’t able to on the second day though.

It was partially due to the room arrangement. The reservations listed Viktor and Yuurika, Yuri and Georgi, Lilia and Mila, and Yakov sleeping solo. In reality, Yuurika moved to Mila’s room, Yuri to Viktor’s, Yakov to Georgi’s, and Lilia retained a private suite (which was just as she preferred). It was kind of a crazy Chinese fire drill (If they had explained it that way to Guang-Hong, he would have wondered if he’d been doing those wrong all these years).

This was all well and good, for the first night. Inexplicably, Mila had been able to hide her true nature then. The facade came crashing down on the second.

“I’m so sorry, Yuuri,” Mila apologized for the fifth time that morning as they stumbled in to the hotel continental breakfast.

“Don’t worry about it, Mila. It wasn’t on purpose,” Yuurika accepted for also the fifth time.

“What did you do this time, hag?” Yuri stomped up, question muffled by the buttered toast hanging from his mouth. He narrowly dodged the splashing coffee in Mila’s hands as she whirled towards him with tears prickling in her eyes.

“I started snoring again!” She wailed.

“And also kicking,” Yuurika reminded her, grabbing a small juice glass and box of cereal from the counter. For some reason, their reservations had more single queen bed rooms instead  of double twins than were requested, and the girls had agreed to bunk together. It had seemed like a better idea at the time than to deal with the inevitable whining of males in the same arrangement.

“Oh, that’s all? I thought that you had a fight and Mila socked you in both eyes.” Yuri indicated Yuurika’s sunken shadows with a waving bagel.

“What? No,” ridiculed Yuurika, pouring milk in her glass and orange juice in her cereal box.

“Blech,” Yuri observed, assuming she liked it that way.

“My protege does, for once, have a point. I have smaller purses at home than the bags under your eyes,” Lilia frigidly informed her as she sipped on a breakfast tea.

Yakov rounded the corner, peeling back the wrapper from a muffin. “Trust her - she knows purses.”

Lilia silenced him with a frosty glare. “If you were having trouble sleeping, you could have come to my suite,” she continued.

“Don’t worry, she doesn’t look any scarier at night than she does by day,” Yakov reassured.

Lilia pinned up her lips disapprovingly. “Are you quite finished?”

“Yuuri was even worse earlier,” Mila confided. “I had to point out the toilet tissue sticking out of her pants. It was still attached to the roll.”

Yuurika squealed. “Don’t tell them about that!”

“Good morning, everyone!” Viktor finally arrived, Georgi in tow. He stopped dead when he noticed Yuurika. “Wow, you look like something Makkachin barfed up.”

“Thanks,” Yuurika mumbled tiredly, raising a spoonful of cereal-and-juice to her lips. Startled by the unexpected flavour combination, she spat it out immediately.

“So that isn’t new eye makeup?” Georgi confirmed. He had been wondering how she managed such an avante-garde design, hoping to ask for pointers later. He sidled towards the scrambled eggs.

“Exactly how much sleep did you get, Yuuri?” Viktor asked, voice low.

“Enough,” Yuurika lied, tossing her phone into the trash and putting her used napkin in her pocket.

Yuri intercepted the throw. “It’s Mila’s fault,” he tattled, handing the phone to Viktor for safekeeping.

“It wasn’t that really,” Yuurika mitigated the blame honestly. “I was kept up mostly by nerves.” Doing so well beyond her expectations yesterday had upped the pressure, and Yuurika had never been able to handle pressure well.

A lanky stubble-faced blonde suddenly joined their party. “Hi, Viktor!” Christophe Giacometti, Swiss medalist, greeted his longtime friend.

“Hi, Chris!” Viktor waved back.

“Well, _hel~lo_ there, Yuu-”

“Bye, Chris!” Viktor called over his shoulder, shoving Yuurika in front of him out of the lobby.

“But I hadn’t finished hazing - I mean greeting Yuuri yet,” Christophe pouted.

“My waffle!” Yuurika protested, reaching behind her.

“Mila, Yuri, bring up a waffle, and some fruit,” Viktor ordered sharply.

“Typical,” Yuri grumbled. “You better bring _me_ waffles during my competitions, Plain Vanilla.” He slunk back to the buffet line.

“Where are we going?” Yuurika asked as the halls rushed past.

“Back to your room,” replied Viktor shortly. “You’re going to get some sleep for the next few hours - but I’ve got to take care of some coach administrative things; I need to find someone to stay with you.”

“I can do it!” Mila offered, joining them at the elevator lobby.

“My waffle?” Yuurika’s eyes lit up with hope.

Mila handed her a cup of mixed fruit. “Sorry, Yuri will bring it up. He said I’d burn it just by looking and sent me on ahead.”

Yuurika took a mouthful of the fruit and grimaced. It was the canned kind. “I can sleep by myself, Viktor.”

“It’s got vitamin C. You’ll eat it and you’ll like it,” Viktor decreed, noticing her expression. “And as if I’d trust you to stay lying down on your own, you worrywort.”

Mila bounced on her toes. “Like I said -”

“You’re not much of an improvement. You helped her get in his state to begin with,” Viktor dismissed.

“That was when I was asleep!” Mila protested.

“You’re hardly any better awake,” Yakov noted, arriving at the lobby with Lilia and Georgi just as the up arrow lit up and dinged (It is a well-known fact that hotel elevators take longer to arrive during continental breakfast hours).

“When Anya couldn’t sleep, I’d sit at her bedside and sing to her while holding her hand,” Georgi suggested during the ride up.

“I’ll just bet you did,” Mila retorted, disgusted.

“You have to get ready for your own free skate,” Lilia reminded Georgi. “And Yakov and I will be busy with you.”

Viktor pondered the situation. “I guess that just leaves Yuri.”

“Leaves me what now?” asked Yuri, bearing waffles (He’d taken the stairs. In Mother Russia, you don’t wait for elevators. Elevators wait for you).

“Waffles!” Yuurika reached yearningly for the steaming, buttery, syrupy goodness.

“Don’t choke before I beat you,” Yuri advised considerately, handing the plate over.

“Yuuri, get some sleep before your free skate. Yuri, make sure she stays asleep. Actually, that sounds dangerous. Mila, you stay with them. Yuri, make sure neither of them do anything stupid,” Viktor handed out assignments.

“That sounds even more dangerous,” Georgi opined.

Viktor brushed Yuurika’s hair away from some syrup on her cheek. “Yuuri, you’ll be fine resting with these two with you, right?”

Yuurika tried hard to concentrate on his words. She almost had it, but was distracted by the sizzle-smoke settling deep in her nostrils from her still-racing brain. She’d have loved to turn it off, but the switch for that seemed to have melted away from the heat radiating from her forehead. But she concentrated on her name falling from Viktor’s lips, reveling in the purring, languid sound of the stretched syllable, and let it mesmerize her. She decided he couldn’t have said anything unpleasant.

“Uh-huh,” she nodded.

“Good girl.” Viktor smiled warmly at her. “Now, see you before your free skate.” With a final smooth of a stray lock, he disappeared down the hall. Lilia, Yakov, and Georgi soon followed.

“Let’s get on with this,” Yuri grunted.

Yuurika swiped her credit card through the key reader.

“I’ve got it, Yuuri,” Mila said soothingly, producing her own key card.

“Now finish your waffle and lie down on the bed,” bossed Yuri.

“You don’t have to give me instructions to sleep,” Yuurika informed him, too tired to fight back properly. Since he had commanded what was her intention to begin with, she complied anyway.

“Okay, now, are you asleep yet?” Yuri peered at her shut eyelids.

Yuurika sighed. “No, not yet.”

“Maybe we should try what Georgi said,” murmured Mila in Yuri’s ear.

“What?”

“Hold her hand and sing a lullaby.”

“I’m not doing that!” Yuri vehemently whisper-shouted.

“Look, if you could just hand me my eye mask over there Mila, and both of you stay quiet, I think it’ll work out,” Yuurika suggested.

“Here you go.”

They sat on desk chairs they’d drawn up to her bed, staring at her supine figure.

“Think she’s asleep yet?”

“Nah, I think she’s faking.”

“How can we tell?”

“I bet she’s ticklish.”

Seriously, she thought she was the one who was loopy with sleeplessness. “Just watch videos on your phones with earbuds or something,” Yuurika groaned.

Mila and Yuri did just that.

It took some time, due to her nerves rather than her two wardens (In fact, listening to their quiet breathing and rustling actually provided a soothing white noise that hastened her slumber). At some point, after Mila was drooling (thankfully not snoring or kicking, but still - ugh, cooties) on his shoulder, Yuri looked up and found himself the only one awake in the room.

He looked at the prostrate form on the bed, the one that both lost (in his mind) and gained him a coach, who had turned his life upside down.

If his perpetual scowl shrank a little (not softened! Yuri Plisetsky was not _soft_ ) as he gazed, there were no other open eyes to witness it.


	21. #SolidTen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Viktor is the marshmallow to Yuurika's flaming mess.

Soon enough, Yuri joined Viktor downstairs.

“So, did she sleep?” Viktor asked worriedly.

“Yeah, some,” Yuri reported, forehead creased in concern. “Mila and I just left to give her space to change.”

Viktor’s eyes softened. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Yuri glanced at him with the corner of his eye, suspicion and gratitude at the sudden solicitude glinting through. “Mila and I watched Georgi’s free skate on our phones.”

“Yes? What did you think?”

"Being in love looks hella painful," Yuri summarized briefly.

"It doesn’t have to be,” Viktor shared. “With my first girlfriend...”

“I’m already sorry I asked,” Yuri shot back. “Oh wait, I never did.” He glanced at the elevator, spying Yuurika in the cab. “Well, time’s up.” He beat an escape from the ancient moron’s reminiscing.

Yuurika disembarked the elevator.

“Oh, Yuuri.” Viktor sighed, catching sight of her. “Did you even look in a mirror?”

“What? Oh.” Yuurika tugged off her jacket and began turning it right side out.

“Not that.” He gestured higher. “Where are your hair gel and contacts?”

Yuurika raised a trembling hand and met thick blue rims.

Mila ran up, breathing heavily. “Yuuri! You forgot these!” She dropped off the aforementioned items with Viktor, who began silently helping Yuurika apply them as they walked to the rink.

“I actually dreamed that the free skate was already over,” Yuurika divulged.

“And that you performed to perfection?” Viktor hinted. “I didn’t know you dreamt prophetically.” His encouraging words were belied by his concerned glances.

“That’s it.” Once arrived and warm ups were completed (poorly), Viktor’s mind was made up. “No quads.”

Despite her bone-deep exhaustion, those two words galvanized hidden reserves of vitriolic spitfire in Yuurika. "Leave out my quads!? But that's what sets me apart!"

"As a woman, yes, but no one else knows that. Your specialty is your step sequences and presentation."

"I'd have no problem leaving quads out if we could be sure I'd score well without them and if there was a good reason, but this-"

"You've had too many close calls," Viktor interrupted her. "There was that fiasco of a breakfast earlier, the way you were dressed just now, and even before that when you allowed Guang-Hong to find your bra-"

"How did you know that was my bra?" Yuurika demanded, suspicious.

"I just know it wasn't Mila's," elaborated Viktor. "Mila never wears green. She says it's not an autumn's colour, whatever that means."

“Does she also have something against appliques?” Yuurika asked flatly.

“I don’t know about that.” He frowned and continued. "Anyway, I’ve seen what pushing yourself in the state you’re in can do. Quads right now are not worth the risk. You just don't protect yourself enough, Yuuri. You don't realize the things I do."

"You're not my father, Viktor," Yuurika spat scathingly, searing him with a glare. "I already have a perfectly good one."

"But he's not here," Viktor pointed out.

"So you just step in, as a surrogate?"

"As a man, who’s also older than you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

"This isn't a perfect world, and you have... special circumstances."

“‘Special circumstances’!?”

“Yuuri, you have to realize you’re-” Viktor cut off.

This was it, then. The “You’re only a girl” card.

Viktor caught the terrible look on her face. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought any of that up; it has no bearing on this.” He sighed bitterly. “You’re beyond exhausted, Yuuri. I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m just trying to do what’s best for you.”

Yuurika, her attention span at the snapping point and clinging to his earlier remark, ignored his latter words. "So you have to hover over me and control my life because I'm a woman and young, is that it?" Yuurika put words in his mouth angrily.

“That’s not what I’m doing!” Viktor ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t just ignore -” He cut off, glancing at her sidelong. "What do you want me to be to you then, Yuuri?" His voice strained, matching the frustration behind her own.

Yuurika stared at him for three, four, five seconds, caught off guard. "You're my coach," she finally whispered fiercely.

They gazed at each other, both thinking the same thought.

Was he really just her coach?

Neither dared to ask aloud. Not here, not now.

They shouldn't even be having this conversation to begin with. Yuurika inhaled deeply. "Viktor, if you, as my coach, don't believe in me, how am I supposed to believe in myself?" She turned her pleading gaze to his face, waiting.

It softened. "Yuuri, I've never doubted you'll win," he told her guilelessly. "And I don't doubt that you will advance without quads now. That's why I'm asking this of you."

Yuurika made an effort to regain control of her raging emotions. "I trust you, Viktor." 'But I don't agree and I think you're in the wrong,' she left unsaid.

Viktor sensed it anyway. "Thank you," he said simply, with an overly serene air. He avoided meeting her gaze. "Oh look, your laces. Didn't you double knot them?"

"I did. At least, I think I did," Yuurika admitted lowly.

Viktor bit back a sigh of 'What am I going to do with you?', but not well enough. He bent down to tie her laces for her, a bit more tightly than was strictly necessary.

Yuurika watched him. She knew it bothered him that she didn't see his point of view, but she couldn't change her mind just by wishing. She wanted to make him feel better about it, even if just a little. Unconsciously, she extended a finger and rested it squarely in the part of his hair.

Viktor paused.

Yuurika rubbed the top of his head with one digit, gently and quickly, almost stroking. In scant seconds she was done, her back to him and facing the ice, steeling herself for her big show.

She glided out onto the rink.

Yuurika waited motionlessly for her cue to commence. Shedidn't start skating in the men's division because she had anything to prove- but gradually she had built up an internal obligation to do just that. Even if she weren't a woman, it probably would have been something else - for Japan, for those with low self-esteem. It was just her way - or maybe even the human way. Viktor just didn’t understand.

So focused was she on her furious rationalizing that she missed the signal. Yabai! She jerked ungracefully into her opening gestures, catching up to the music. Her nerves had struck again.

With sudden clarity in a single heartbeat, her slip put the entire previous conversation into crystal focus. This was all happening because Yuurika was drop-dead sleep deprived. Which was exactly what Viktor had been saying - out of concern, not stupidity. And he was right - there were just some things it was much harder for her to do than other people: as a girl, a person struggling with anxiety, an older competitor, as a short person (though Yuri would have scoffed at such a claim, then clam up at admitting his own lack of height). But she had other abilities that came naturally to her to make up for all those, which her coach patiently honed and highlighted each day, along with shoring up her weaker areas. Viktor never doubted her - neither should she. If this was only because she was tired and worried (Though a small insistent voice insinuated that that wasn’t entirely true - _‘What do you want me to be to you then, Yuuri?’_ ), she decided that ended now.

Her nerves, her remorse for how she reacted, all coalesced into one last-ditch push. Yuurika awoke her hidden drive (latent in all with the blood of Japan flowing in their veins) to live without leaving regrets. Her motions brimmed with a brand new determination.

She didn’t attempt a single quad. But, all her triples - she had never landed them with such precision and grace since her first competition in what felt like a whole other lifetime.

The unlimited potential of Katsuki Yuuri was reborn on ice.

She knew her coach won't stay for long - her retirement loomed ever closer along with the moment of truth in the final. Viktor was Viktor, and she’d enjoy each day with him she had left.

As she spun to the closing strains, her thrumming transformative power, summoned by sheer force of will from drying reserves, slowly faded. All that remained was a sleepy, sore girl, gasping for breath, standing amidst a roaring, raucous crowd caught up in exultant cheers. Well, she’d done what she set out to do on the ice. Time to make amends off of it. She shifted, steeling herself to skate to the kiss-and-cry, when she saw a great-coated figure sprinting - _sprinting_ , she’d never seen Viktor sprint before - to the entrance.

Dredging up the last vestiges of her flagging stamina, Yuurika pushed off to meet him, picking up speed. To her astonishment, Viktor burst through the gate and onto the rink. What could have happened during the scant few minutes of her free skate? Concerned, she hastened even more.

Just at the moment of interception, one of Yuurika’s laces (the one Viktor had tied, she’d realize later) broke, and she flailed, spilling to the cold hard surface beneath her. Viktor, already committed to their course and leaning towards her, crashed down with the removal of his target. They both bellyflopped in sync and slid right past the other on their stomachs with their feet in the air, like a pair of beached whales. Everyone in the stadium gasped as one, quieted, then groaned. Coach and student turned over and looked up, assured themselves the other was okay, and burst into unbridled laughter.

Yuurika watched Viktor laugh unrestrainedly, head thrown back, tears springing in the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes, howling to the world. She laughed right alongside him, her own eyes open and filled with him, a rare unassumed vision of the true man behind the legend, the very real human she had grown to know and love. Love… the thought both shocked her to the core and failed to alarm her as much as she expected. She knew better than to form any expectations of… something she couldn’t, wouldn’t conceive of - Viktor was a professional, a gentleman, and most importantly, a true friend whose regard she wouldn’t jeopardize for a thousand hopes. Besides, she wasn’t even sure of the exact nature or tenacity of her broad and nebulous feelings (Was it agape? Eros? Something for which no name had yet been created). She didn’t know the reason Viktor had rushed to meet her or what he had planned to do when he did. Regardless, she resolved to manage herself, as she had done her whole life, to cultivate her friendship with her idol-turned-coach, who she now knew to honestly reciprocate at least her platonic attachment.

Despite all that, she allowed herself, just this once, to drink up the miraculous sight of a Viktor on the ice right beside her, sharing the blinding coronas of light, the bracing chill, the echoing, roaring expanse of the stadium with her as naturally if it was what he was born for. As if they were always meant, from the beginning of time, to be lying there together, close enough to reach out and clasp. The ice brought them together, the ice brought them closer. All love is possible on the ice.

And as she saw him lower his gaze to meet her own, cerulean eyes slitting open languidly with an uncalculated, intense emotion bleeding through, just for an instant, she dared to make a desperate, futile wish that they would never have to leave it.


	22. #ApronStrings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much literary crack.

Upon arriving in the hotel in Rostelecom, team Japan / Russia (Russiapan? Japussia? Final name pending), minus Yakov and Lilia who were ironing out further arrangements, found themselves quite lost.

“Are our rooms in this hall?” Viktor wondered aloud, peering between the room numbers handwritten by the concierge desk and the floor diagram displayed helpfully on the wall LCD. “Let’s see, we’re here…”

“That’s the other wing, stupid Viktor,” Yuri corrected.

“He does this every event,” Mila confided to Yuurika, her elbow propped on the shorter girl’s shoulder as they took a breather from toting their luggage across the complex.

“I guess after that many competitions, they all look the same?” Yuurika ventured, searching for an excuse for her coach. She could see that happening. All the hotels she had ever stayed in for skating events had the same geometric patterned short carpet, the same neutral wallpaper, and the same dim lighting that made her want to fall asleep right in the hallway.

“Don’t be soft, Plain Vanilla,” Yuri called as he strode right past her, swiped the room key cards from Viktor, and marched ahead, eyes forward. “He couldn’t find his way home in a handbasket.”

“Neither could you from Hasetsu,” Viktor reminded him.

“Urgh.”

“I hope we find them soon. My eyeliner is running,” Georgi muttered fretfully.

“Why are you wearing eyeliner? We’re not even competing today,” asked Mila validly.

“I use it to express my inner anguish and the twilight of my soul,” Georgi explained.

“Seriously, are we even in the right building?” Yuurika wondered.

“No,” declared the Korean representative Seung-Gil Lee emphatically, as he stalked past them in the opposing direction.

Yuri was outraged. “How would _he_ know?!”

“No, you’re probably heading the right way,” said one of three figures loitering in the corridor ahead. As the group drew nearer, they recognized their fellow competitors: the Italian super twins Sara and Michele Crispino, and Emil Nekola from the Czech Republic.

“What was that all about?” wondered Viktor.

“Maybe he was crossed in love,” Georgi postulated.

Yuurika frowned. “I doubt that.”

“Did you threaten to beat him up and take his lunch money?” Mila asked the Europeans with an air of professional interest. She had done that herself once before as a joke, and Seung-Gil had reacted in the exact same manner. He had also done so last season when she, with assistance from the intrepid Christophe Giacometti, switched his program music during practice for BIGBANG's Fantastic Baby, but that’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say, Mila Babicheva wasn't Seung-Gil Lee's favourite person.

“No, I just asked if he wanted any tiramisu. I whipped some up in our efficiency suite,” Sara explained. “I make a mean tiramisu.”

“It’s really fantastic. And her panna cotta is to die for,” endorsed her doting brother.

“I like tiramisu,” Emil offered.

“Shut up Emil, I don’t / Micky doesn’t like you,” snapped the twins simultaneously.

The rejected young man scuffed the carpet with his shoe forlornly. “Aww.”

“Well, we’d love some tiramisu!” Mila slung an arm about Yuurika’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t we, Yuuri?”

Yuurika glanced at her shyly and nodded.

Sara observed them, puzzled. She didn’t know the Russian Mila Babicheva that well, merely socializing superficially during scattered skating social events. Compared to several of the other (fan-crazed) women she met at those events, Mila, despite being something of a tease, always seemed comparatively hands-off the boys. With, of course, the obvious exception of Yuri Plisetsky (Whether the rambunctious figure skater designated him a little brother or workout equipment, Sara wasn’t sure).

Therefore, when Sara noticed how Mila draped herself all over Katsuki Yuuri so comfortably, and recollected certain mannerisms that had always bothered her about the Japanese contestant, she put two and two together.

As she always did, she’d have to share the juicy news with Micky. Catching his gaze, the siblings engaged in a moment of their patented twin telepathy.

“Sure!” Sara said aloud. Leaning closer to the pair with Micky, she whispered, “And if there are any leftovers, I’ll bring them up to your room later. I assume you are both sharing a room, instead of with Viktor, considering your circumstances, Yuuri?”

“W-what?” Yuurika stammered, flustered beyond belief. As a matter of fact, she was (They’d confirmed separate twin beds and she’d invested in industrial-strength earplugs this time), but Yuurika felt no need to confirm that for the Crispinos.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us,” Sara assured her.

“But isn’t sharing a room rather… scandalous?” Micky pointed out, perturbed.

“Why?” asked Mila.

“No, you lummox, not that,” Sara scolded.

“I’m confused too,” Emil admitted.

“Why are you still here, Emil!?” the twins screeched at him, driving him backwards.

Emil sniffed disconsolately and walked away alone.

“Aren’t we congratulating them, Sara?”

“They’re not dating, Micky.” Yuuri  _obviously_ liked Viktor.

“Then why are they acting weird?”

Sara rolled her eyes at him. “Ugh, I’ll explain later.” She turned back to the two girls. “Sorry, he’s not usually this thick.”

“Actually, I really prefer for as few people to know as possible,” Yuurika admitted worriedly.

Sara chuckled. “Don’t worry, he can be discrete. Right, Micky?”

“Of course, my cute darling Sara,” he replied adoringly.

Yuri gagged. “Sis-con.”

“Love, in all its forms, is both amazing and beautiful,” Georgi reproved. They waited for him to continue, but he elected to contemplate the mysterious connections that shaped the universe in inner reverie.

“I understand and agree with your sentiment, but you probably ought to be careful how you phrase that,” noted Viktor, frowning.

Yuurika raised her eyes upward in silent agony, stiffening when she noticed a placard directly behind the twins’ heads.

“Oh, we’re here,” she observed. She yoinked her key card from Yuri’s hold, swiped herself in, and shut the door on all the crazies in the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is mostly crack slash filler (And also an attempt to include the four characters introduced within the chapter; there are so many fun characters, and so little of my imagination on how to do them justice). You can ignore this with little to no damage to the plot (Though a bit of the next chapter would be confusing).  
> If you want to know more about Mila’s prank on Seung-Gil, you can read all about it in Hashtag Y So Extra in [#BoyBand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11286867/chapters/25387032)  
> And if you would like to know more about Yuurika's name, that's added at the end of the second chapter.


	23. #HugLine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which anime grandpas make everything better. Oh, and coaches too.

Yuurika got the call from home the night before her free skate. Hiroko spoke over Mari’s “Aw dang!” in the background. “She only left it out five seconds. I didn’t even know a creature could eat that many manju that fast.”

Yuurika held her breath. “Will Makkachin be alright?”

Hiroko sighed. “I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t have even called you, but I didn’t want to risk mistranslating to Viktor. We should know one way or another by morning.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll tell him,” Yuurika promised. “Love you!” and she hung up. She turned to a hovering Viktor. “Makkachin choked on some food. He’s been taken to the vet, but they can’t be sure that he’ll make it.”

Viktor’s clear blue eyes filled with worry. “Makkachin... but there’s nothing I can do for him, and I can’t leave you on your own at a competition.”

“But I’m not on my own,” Yuurika reminded him. “I have everyone else here to support me - Makkachin needs you. You should go.”

Viktor still gazed at her hesitantly.

“I still wish I had more warning about Vicchan, that I could have prepared myself for what happened, and have been with him at the end,” Yuurika confessed. “I know he was fighting to hold out until I got there, and I never did. That doesn’t have to happen with Makkachin.”

Viktor just looked at her, with concern, gratitude, and something else she couldn’t identify. “Are you sure, Yuuri?” he said finally.

“I can skate without you, Viktor,” she assured him firmly. “I’ve done it before.”

True to her promise, Yuurika skated - but that was all she could do, just skate. She couldn’t dance, couldn’t create music with her movements as she was wont to do, as Viktor had spied and brought out in her. She completed the program with relatively acceptable technical accuracy considering her record, but she noticed the missing spark. Worse, everyone else noticed.

At the kiss-and-cry, Yakov tried his best to keep her spirits up, but nothing seemed to have an effect.

“Yelling at her won’t help, Yakov,” his ex-wife informed him coldly. “You should hug her, like Viktor does. Or, well, he tries to.”

“Hug her?!” Yakov shouted, incredulous.

Yuurika jumped. Despite their shared time at Ice Castle Hasetsu, she still felt vaguely ill at ease with her grand-coach. In a vague haze, she mused that she’d never seen an individual with such bushy, prickly expostulating eyebrows before. She didn’t even know exactly why that would bother her (which also bothered her).

“See, you scared her,” Lilia reproved. “You’d better hurry before she goes catatonic.”

“Why don’t you do it then?” Yakov asked hesitantly. And he thought teenage boys were difficult to coach.

Lilia glanced down at the two on the bench and hmphed. “I don’t think she can reach me. You’re more her size.”

A loud wet sniff escaped the girl between them.

Hurriedly, Yakov hugged her before the snot arrived.

Yuurika remained stiff in his arms, and rose when he quickly released her. The Russians watched her meander off lifelessly.

“So you still can’t do that right,” Lilia observed.

Meanwhile, Yuurika roamed the halls, zombie-like. Her first victims took the form of the Crispinos and the tag-along Emil.

“Oh, Yuuri, poor baby,” Sara crooned. “Come here, I’ve got you.”

Yuurika hugged her.

“Come on, you too,” Sara urged her brother.

Micky complied. “Since I know your circumstances, I don’t mind you hugging Sara, but if you were a boy, I’d be dislocating your arm right about now,” he whispered comfortingly.

“I’ll give you a hug, Yuuri!” Emil generously offered.

Sara looked him over deprecatingly. “I doubt it will help.”

“Aww,” he whimpered, chastened.

Yuurika hugged him anyway. Sara was right; it didn’t help.

“Maybe Mila and Georgi would make Yuuri feel better?” Micky suggested, searching the premises.

“They already left for the airport. So has JJ,” his sister informed him.

Yuurika, oblivious, approached the suddenly arrived Seung-Gil.

“No,” he announced firmly, raising one declining hand.

Yuurika hugged the hand, since the Seung-Gil wasn’t interested. It was the least huggable thing she’d embraced all day.

“Oi, Plain Vanilla, where’d you go? Yakov is looking for you,” Yuri called, entering the corridor.

Yuurika acquired and locked on a new target.

Yuri was alarmed. “What’s the matter with Vanilla?”

“Yuuri just wants a hug,” Sara explained placatingly.

“Over my dead body,” Yuri spat. He took off running.

Yuurika charged.

“I can’t shake her,” Yuri panted. He jackknifed down a perpendicular hall, and sprinted for the exit.

Yuurika navigated the sudden trajectory change without dropping speed. She flew straight out the swinging door, nearly bowling over the figure waiting just outside. She pinwheeled her arms until she finally regained her balance.

“I brought your piroshkis, Yuratchka,” said Yuri’s grandfather Nikolai Plisetsky.

“Wow, thanks grandpa!” Yuri returned enthusiastically, green eyes sparkling. He stepped out from behind his aged relative.

“And this must be the Katsuki Yuuri I’ve heard so much about. Thank you for your hospitality to my grandson.”

“If I’m not hospitable, he’ll probably stab me with his knife shoes,” she mumbled, her speech filters down 90%.

Nikolai looked askance at his grandson.

“I wouldn’t. Probably.”

His grandfather sighed. “We’ll have to work on that,” he responded resignedly. “Why don’t you share these piroshkis with your friend?”

Yuri took the proffered bag with a pout. “Do I have to? And Plain Vanilla’s not my friend. She’s competition.”

“It’s good manners to share, whether with a friend or competitor. And these piroshkis are special - they won’t keep long anyways.”

“Special?” echoed Yuri, stuffing one in his mouth. His eyes widened. “Thish ish goodmf!”

Yuurika tilted her head.

“Here, try one,” Nikolai urged her, handing her a still warm packet of fried goodness.

Yuurika accepted it and bit down. Her teeth cut through the thick buttery dough, flooding her mouth with something cool, sweet and milky. She looked down at the remainder.

“... Ice cream?”

“It’s not that much different from fried ice cream in other places, and Yuratchka has been talking about it lately,” Nikolai explained.

Yuurika took another hesitant bite.

“Sidequest cleared,” Yuri mumbled around the snack stuffed in his mouth.

But that was before Yuurika's eyes suddenly welled with tears.

“You can finish the rest in a minute,” Nikolai told her, and plucked the half-eaten piroshki out of her hands.

Yuurika just stood there.

“You must have had quite a day,” the wizened man stated mildly, and with practiced ease, enveloped her in well-bundled arms.

Finally, Yuurika’s wall came tumbling down and she broke down into sobs. Nikolai Plisetsky merely continued to hold her and patted her back comfortingly.

All this time, images of Vicchan, in pain and confused, overlapped with Makkacchin, which morphed into Viktor. She thought she’d gotten over her sorrow for her lost canine friend long ago, but it all came roaring back during her skate. It seemed like her grief had merely been in stasis, not resolved. She hoped not every parting, including temporary ones, would trigger these feelings in the future.

Yuri watched, face neutrally still. “What’s going on, grandpa?” She was in _his_ spot, and Yuri did not like to share.

“I don’t know,” Nikolai answered him calmly. “I thought you might tell me.”

“... Stupid Viktor’s dog got sick and might die, and he flew back to Japan.”

“Then it’s something you know quite well,” the old man replied simply.

Yuri’s face darkened. It was beyond his scowls: those were threats, this was aftermath. “This is nothing alike,” he enunciated evenly, in a far deeper voice than the skating world had ever heard him employ.

“The loss is at a very different scale, but you must remember what I told you,” Nikolai reminded him.

“‘The ones that hurt the most are your first and your last. The rest are reliving them,’” Yuri recited.

Yuurika, unhearing, continued crying herself out, muffled in Nikolai’s coat.

Skaters’ hearts, like those of the rest of us lesser humans, are made of glass. They may be luminous and ethereal in their fragile beauty, but if you cause them to resonate at the right frequency, you’ll witness a sight you never be able to forget (nor repeat).

###

By the time Yuurika and Yuri reached the airport in Japan, Yakov, Lilia, Mila, and Georgi were already long gone. They traversed the terminal, looking for a particular familiar face. “You go that way, I’ll go this way,” Yuri commanded, pointing.

On his beat, Yuri soon spied a well-known (thinning, he added evilly) head of silver hair. He rushed back to the meeting place. “Let’s switch,” he announced abruptly, pushing Yuurika in the correct direction. He, for reasons he decided not to elucidate even in the privacy of his own mind, hung back out of earshot.

Yuurika rushed forward, searching frantically. She finally caught a glimpse of his back, accompanied by a brown, furry one, through the long glass divider. She gasped in relief. At the same moment, he turned around and locked eyes with her. Without a word, all three began running for the break in the wall. She leapt at him.

Viktor caught her, and she felt the sensation of coming back together into one whole, like a pair of magnets suspended apart for too long. They still refrained from speaking. Makkachin bounded around them, patting their knees softly.

Yuurika felt her tension dissipate, secure in the realization that she did not have to bid goodbye to two of her loved ones today. She breathed in the familiar scent of the man holding her (cashmere and bergamot, with something spicy and and tingly and uniquely _him_ ) and wished she would never have to forget it. She wanted to know he would always come back to her, that she’d never have to experience another absence in her heart. She knew it was selfish, that she couldn’t keep him forever - he was her coach, not her family, and only until the end of the agreed-upon Grand Prix season _and despite him catching her now, all his actions - and lack of them - affirmed her hypothesis that Viktors don’t love Yuuris, not like that_ \- so she would wish for something she believed might come true. “Please be my coach until I retire,” she whispered in a daze.

She felt Viktor stiffen in her arms. “Then I hope to never see you retire,” she felt him murmur, the rumble of his voice traveling down her spine.

Yuurika knew Viktor enjoyed coaching her, loved how she surprised him. But one day soon, she’d run out of surprises, out of stamina; the ice would take back the man she unintentionally stole from it, and she wouldn’t hold him back.

For just those few moments, however, both could forget about that impending day.

But not for more than a few moments. The Grand Prix final was rushing upon them.


	24. #PutARingOnIt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuurika approaches Viktor levels of extra. Like, over 9000.

“For a large, gaudy, sprawling landmark, we sure are having a hard time finding la Sagrada Familia.”

Viktor couldn’t help but agree. The psuedo-Gothic (perpetually delayed - he felt like there was a metaphor in there somewhere) structure was at the top of both of their itineraries. Yuri had declined the adventure, claiming he had other plans (Viktor had caught a glimpse of a cat cafe address on his phone earlier. Yuri could have just admitted it; Viktor wouldn’t judge. Not that that would stop him from laughing for a few minutes at his expense though). Mila and Georgi, who had tagged along with their rinkmates despite not competing in the men’s finals, were spending the day with the Crispino twins. That left Viktor and Yuurika together for the rest of the day between practice and the short program commencement of the Grand Prix Final to explore Barcelona on their own. But despite their best efforts and tantalizing glimpses in the distance, they couldn’t manage to navigate their way to their goal.

It probably would have helped if they had asked someone, but it was actually harder than they would have thought to find anyone who spoke English (They didn’t even bother to try Russian or Japanese). Viktor had always considered himself gifted with languages, and his Spanish in particular at least passable, but every attempt had met with either humiliating laughter or a spurting fountain of rapid directions that neither could interpret. After enough iterations, both silently agreed that they’d be better off just winging it.

“Viktor, there’s a marzipan and gelato stand! Are you hungry?”

“No. It’s too cold for gelato anyway,” Viktor claimed. Actually, he had just realized he’d randomly forgotten how to ask the cost in Spanish.

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s just, it’s almost your birthday, I wanted to treat you to something,” Yuurika said conversationally.

His birthday! It had completely slipped his mind. And Christmas! He had to get something for Yuuri. And her family, too, probably, they’d been so nice putting him up (He adamantly ignored the fact that he was paying them to do so). And the Nishigori family for letting them use the rink, and all their rinkmates. Ugh, that was a lot of people to think of gifts for. Would cat toys work for Yuri? And he couldn’t think of a single thing Georgi would want, except for his ex (Even Viktor couldn’t do a thing for him there). Maybe mascara? Or eyeliner. He looked like he burned through a lot of it.

“Viktor, Viktor! Let’s stop here!”

Lost in his planning, Viktor bumped into his suddenly stalled companion, correcting his balance with a gloved hand. Yuurika didn’t comment on it, but just glanced at his hand for a second and dashed into the shop, a definite skip in her step. Viktor stood outside patiently, shifting and gazing at the passersby, frozen breath escaping in puffy clouds. Soon enough, Yuurika rushed to rejoin him, a small packet in her hands.

“Look Viktor!” She opened it and reached inside, withdrawing two circular objects with a flourish. “Happy early birthday!”

“Thank you,” said Viktor dubiously.

“I haven’t seen any for so long, I just had to get them! See, mood rings!”

“I do see them,” Viktor assured her, trying to shake off his sudden vertigo from being instantly transported to the nineties. “I’m so pleased my birthday is conveniently imminent, so as to enable your nostalgia-fueled shopping spree.”

“It’s hardly a spree,” Yuurika said defensively. “I wanted to buy more for our rinkmates, so we’d all match - and for team bonding. But they didn’t have any more of the sizes that would fit Yuri or Mila.”

Probably because they were sold out of the small sizes and Yuuri’s rings were just marked-up overstock, since mood rings are for kids, Viktor thought, but was too much of a gentleman to point out.

“And Georgi’s would probably just stay black anyway, with all his angsting,” Yuurika confided.

“Yuuri, you do know that mood rings just respond to the wearer’s temperature, right?” Viktor broke gently.

“...Of course I know that.” It was true; she knew _now_.

“And we spend most of our time in an ice rink,” Viktor explained patiently. “So, and especially in this weather, they’d probably always be the color for the lowest body temperature.”

Yuurika fished a colored chart from her package. She held it up, and followed the gradient down to its lowest point.

“Gold,” she read, then stopped.

“‘Tired, energetic, also associated with food,’” Viktor finished aloud.

They glanced at each other.

“The shop doesn’t accept returns,” Yuurika informed him.

“I wouldn’t hear of you returning my birthday gift anyway,” Viktor declared magnanimously. “Come over here, there’s a bit of space. Let’s make sure they fit.”

Sheltered from the snow flurries that suddenly sprang up, the pair stood on wide stone steps and withdrew their gloves from their right hands. First Yuurika, then Viktor, placed a ring on their partner’s finger. They slid on like they were made for it. Yuurika had never noticed before how long and slim Viktor’s hand was until she held it in her own; for a full-grown male athlete, he was surprisingly slender. She guessed there were some things you just had to find out in person rather than from a poster; though, maybe it was a recent thing, a loss of mass due to his transition from training to coaching. She could appreciate him both ways.

“Pretty, huh?” Yuurika mused, shifting her newly-adorned hand in the fading light.

“Yes,” said Viktor. “It’s very… yellow.” He splayed his fingers, making a show of examining all the new accessory’s facets. If his focus was instead on the glowing, grinning bundle of nerves, admiration, and girlish glee just beyond, well, no one would know.

Viktor took in the scene, with Yuurika entranced by the ring, the powdery snow falling silently, the grey walls enshrining them, and the harmonic voices floating about them. He widened his vision and sighed softly, finally realizing.

“Yuuri?”

“Yes, Viktor?”

“Look up.”

She raised her eyes to the gossamer-delicate spires and enduring weathered stonework of la Sagrada Familia basilica.

They’d finally made it.

The pair spent several minutes just enjoying the reverent song of the choir and the peaceful aura of the church, reveling in the feeling of finding their destination all to be what they hoped and more.

But skaters can’t stay still forever.

“Viktor.”

“Yes, Yuuri?”

“I’m hungry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don’t own Beyonce’s song (referenced in the chapter title). I almost wish I was making up that “Also associated with food” bit about mood ring colour meanings.  
> It has been pointed out to me that the lowest temperature colour in mood rings is not in fact yellow (I just made up the colour coding). We can just pretend that Yuurika chose that rare imaginary freak mood ring brand that defies all logic in colouration (for plot reasons).


	25. #RoyalFlush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which seven figure skaters, two Japanese tourists, and one like ninety-pound girlfriend walk into a bar. How many will walk back out?

At the bar they finally selected for dinner (for some reason, Spain and Barcelona especially seemed to have one on every corner), who should Viktor and Yuurika run into but Yuri and the Kazakh representative, Otabek Altin, appearing just as nonplussed as they at the sudden reunion.

“Hey, Yuri! Did you find that cat cafe?” Viktor greeted loudly.

Yuri hissed.

“Oh, is that where you were headed?” asked Otabek, no twitch of his stolid face betraying amusement.

“There was an … incident,” Yuri explained reluctantly. “We ended up sight-seeing, then came here for dinner.”

“Same!”

“... And remember, you don’t have to order a cerveza to get free tapas,” Minako informed Mari as they walked in the door.

“Ah!”

The six blinked at each other, all astonishment at the coincidence.

“Well, shall we sit?” Viktor prompted, not one to deny fate.

The group trooped towards a corner table.

“I’ll be right back, I need to visit the washroom,” Yuurika excused herself.

“We’ll go with you,” said Mari companionably, rising from the table with Minako.

“Sure, thanks.” Yuurika took a few steps towards the women’s facilities, then paused. “...but _separately_ , since I’m going to the _MEN’s_ washroom.”

The other two, as the magnitude of what they had just done finally descended upon them, turned as one to stare at Otabek in trepidation.

“Oh, I know Katsuki’s a girl,” said Otabek.

“You do?” Yuri verified, voice low in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Since when?” Viktor queried sharply.

“Since I’ve ever heard of her, I think. I mean, it’s obvious. She’s just… clearly female,” Otabek said, frowning in discomfort.

“And you just… did nothing?” Yuri clarified.

“I thought it was some Japanese tradition, since no one else was saying anything. So I did some research.” Otabek turned to face Yuri, concern written across every line. “No one has approached you claiming to be your long-lost little sister or forgotten childhood friend while running with toast in their mouth, or stalked you while calling you sempai, or stolen your underwear or anything, right, Yuri?”

“Of course not,” Yuri scoffed loudly. “The only ones who've bothered me in Japan are these idiots here and those crazy quadruplets -”

“Triplets,” Minako corrected.

“And Mari does all the laundry.” Yuri abruptly cut off as he remembered something. “Wait, my missing lucky boxers…” He turned to face Yuurika with wide, betrayed eyes.

“Remember, this is my elder sister, who is right here by the way, that you’re accusing of stealing prepubescent boys’ underpants,” Yuurika deadpanned.

Mari waved. “Hi!” There were actually a lot of things she did, as the daughter at a ryokan, besides cooking and cleaning (already a full-time job in themselves) that haven’t come up - such as advertising, manning the phones, registering guests, translating, guiding, keeping the account books, among a myriad of others. Which was a lot more than Yuurika had to keep up with (And yes, she did feel badly about that, thank you for asking). It was also probably why Mari forgot to do particular small tasks occasionally. Not that anybody noticed. And of course, as Yuurika had just mentioned, none of her chores included pilfering pantaloons from prepubescents.

“Prepubescent!? I’ll show you prepubescent!”

“My bad,” Yuurika claimed blandly.

Otabek gulped, sweating profusely and inclining his head to Mari in apology. “Sorry!”

“Don’t be such a wuss. You’re a head taller than her. Emphasis on the ‘her’,” misogynistic Yuri reprimanded his new friend.

“Don’t underestimate Japanese girls. She probably was nationally ranked in kendo or sumo in primary school,” Otabek warned.

“We both took ballet,” Mari interjected.

“From me!” Minako swooped in, face aglow.

“And really, girls competing in sumo? Please, try to even picture that,” Yuurika reasoned.

The two boys complied. Their faces stilled, mouths taut in a grim line. Whatever they imagined, it couldn’t have been pretty.

Meanwhile in Hasetsu’s Yuutopia, a venerable repeat-guest grandma held to the light a beautifully laundered pair of leopard print boxers that had been mixed in with her unmentionables for inspection. No, not her husband’s and obviously not hers. “Not again,” she sighed.

Back in the bar at Barcelona, the three ladies finally took their leave to visit the women’s washroom.

“I’m just surprised this same thing hasn’t happened before,” Otabek observed.

Viktor propped his chin up, (rudely) resting his elbows on the table. “She said she’s always been very careful at competitions.”

Yuri scoffed. “Yeah, careful.”

Otabek looked at them curiously but said nothing.

“She’s had to take a lot of precautions for a long time to keep this secret,” Viktor confided. “I trust she’s got it well under control, with all the effort she’s put in.” And if he sometimes harboured doubts about that - well, no one needed to know, especially Yuurika. Not after Beijing. “And really, there’s only so much bad luck that can happen to one person, even Yuuri,” he concluded, laughing.

Maybe that was true, maybe not. If so, she must have been named Murphy in a past life. Either way, Viktor would kick himself later for his inadvertent flag-planting.

Because, just at the moment, who among the million within Barcelona should walk in that bar among hundreds of bars, but the rest of the Grand Prix international representatives (along with the Canadian self-proclaimed king of skating JJ Leroy’s permanently attached plus-one).

“Hey, everybody!” Phichit waved sunnily.

“Hello!” Viktor called back.

“Fancy meeting you lot here,” the seasoned Swiss representative Christophe Giacometti said liltingly, unknowingly stealing Minako’s chair.

“You’ve all met my fine girlfriend, Isabella?” said JJ proudly, presenting the demure smiling beauty at his side.

“Yes,” answered Yuri bluntly. “She’s always stuck to you, like lichen.”

“Yuri, don’t be rude,” reproved Viktor.

Yuri kicked him under the table.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Otabek greeted her politely, covering for his recalcitrant friend.

“So, what are you having?” Phichit asked, grabbing a menu.

“We were just leaving,” Yuri announced.

“What?” Christophe asked, understandably confused.

“They, uh, don’t speak English here, and we’re terrible at Spanish,” Otabek lied.

A waitress swept by, leaving glasses face down in front of the skaters, and promised in passable English to return for their orders shortly.

“He means they don’t accept cards here, and we didn’t bring cash in Euros,” Yuri supplied, elbowing his solidly built new friend (His elbow protested that course of action immediately).

“Yes they do,” JJ contradicted, pointing out the clearly written English lines at the bottom of the menu. Isabella nodded in agreement.

“What’s up with you two?” Viktor leaned over the table to whisper furiously.

“Idiot,” Yuri growled at him, refusing to elaborate.

“I resent that, especially if you don’t tell me why I deserve it,” Viktor retorted coldly.

Otabek swiveled his head slightly towards the highly visible door off the side, labeled “MUJER” in bold capital letters, and adorned explicitly with a stick figure in a full skirt.

Viktor paled, no longer arguing with Yuri’s appellation for him.

“Is your party ready to order?” the nice waitress asked, pen at the ready.

“Yes, I think we’re all here,” JJ replied.

“Wait, where’s Yuuri?” Phichit recollected suddenly.

Viktor surreptitiously glanced towards the facilities.

Phichit startled, eyes widening. “Guys, maybe we should try somewhere else,” he suggested, wringing his hands unconsciously.

Christophe glared at him. “Not you too.”

“Well,” Phichit replied dithering, reaching for his phone. “Have you read the reviews?”

“I resent that insinuation,” the waitress objected.

Yuurika and her two escorts chose that moment to exit, chatting and laughing, from the ladies’ room. They walked carelessly to the table to a dead silent table, all eyes upon with with varying degrees of dread, sympathy, and 404 errors.

“Hey guys, what a coincidence!” Yuurika trailed off, disturbed by the odd reception.

“Oh my goodness, it’s Yuuri Katthuki!” the waitress gasped. That bewitching Castilian lisp was strong in this one - she must have moved from elsewhere in Spain.

“Yes, I think so?”

“And all the world finalists!” the woman continued gushing. “It’s like the dream team assembled!”

Minako clasped the waitress’ hands in her own. “I know the feel, sister.”

“All the male ice skating creme-de-la-creme, right here at this bar!” The Spanish fangirl turned slowly. “But, Yuuri just came from the women’s restroom. What were you doing in there?”

“Powdering my nose,” Yuurika snapped reflexively.

“That’s not what she means,” Mari told her in low voice. “I don’t think a euphemism is going to get you out of this one.”

Yuurika glanced over the still faces arranged about the table, suddenly recollecting the past quarter hour (In her defense, it’s easy to feel temporarily disconnected from the outside world in the sanctuary of the ladies’ room). The permanent damage from her momentary lapse slapped her full force.

“Yabai.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What ‘incident’ is Yuri referring to that led him to him and Otabek walking into a Barcelona bar together? If you want to know, check out the story Hashtag Y So Extra and the chapter [#JoyRide](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11286867/chapters/25522005).


	26. #YOLO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a great many things should make more sense now.

“Just bottled water please,” Yuurika pronounced carefully in Spanish.

She’d always been careful not to drink alcohol in public. It was a family condition. Her father became a fun-loving but rowdy embarrassment with the smallest beer, her mother was an angry drunk (Yuurika was told, she’d never witnessed it. She had tried to picture it before but failed, out of a combination of futility and trepidation), and Mari was a sad drunk. That Yuurika had had the distinct misfortune to witness firsthand, and it was not an experience she would wish on her worst enemy.

“Bottled water for me as well,” Viktor echoed more fluidly, smiling at Yuurika.

“A beer, please,” Christophe requested with a roguish wink. He watched the waitress, from whom a promise of secrecy had been successfully extracted, hurry off with their drink orders (adult beverages for the rest who qualified under Spanish age restrictions, except for Otabek who ordered Fanta in solidarity with the sole disenfranchised party member). “I had suspected as much for a while now,” Christophe continued their previous conversation. He smiled sphinx-like.

“Seriously, how?” Viktor demanded.

Christophe’s scurrilous smirk only stretched further, accompanied by wiggling eyebrows.

“You can’t fool the king. You’re trying to prank us,” JJ asserted confidently.

“Then what was Yuuri doing in the ladies’ room?” Isabella pointed out.

JJ frowned. “The men's’ is probably under renovation.”

Isabella mirrored his expression. “No, it’s not,” she denied, indicating the construction-free mentioned room visible down a disparate hall.

“Chris, I swear to goodness, if you don't tell me right here, right now, I'll make you regret it in hell,” Viktor warned.

“No you won't,” Chris sang back. “You love me too much.”

“We have to know,” Phichit demanded, bouncing in his seat. “Choose: either your lips remain sealed, or this super-special folder of pictures from the pool this morning will.”

“All right, all right!” Christophe lifted his hands up in immediate surrender. “I've suspected it since last year’s banquet.”

“What?” Yuri asked confused.

“Remember that little... incident?”

“What incident?” Yuurika echoed, clueless.

Christophe continued prompting. “Remember, Viktor? How it all started in the first place?”

“No, that was all on you. I had nothing to do it,” Viktor denied loudly.

“Oh, you mean _that_. Fair enough, I'll take credit for that,” Christophe accepted graciously. “I was talking about the grand finale though.”

Viktor narrowed his eyes, then widened them in understanding.

“Hahaha,” laughed Phichit, clearly in on the joke.

“Seriously, what are you all going on about?” interjected Yuurika desperately.

Viktor regurgitated his water unattractively. “You mean you don’t remember? Any of it?” he spluttered.

Yuurika, mildly disgusted, slightly scooted her chair away from him. “Remember what?”

Phichit continued chuckling. “No, of course she doesn’t.”

“Figures,” muttered Yuri.

“But I think it’s high time she did,” Phichit determined thoughtfully.

“That would be nice,” opined Yuurika.

“Perhaps it’s better she didn’t, right before the final anyway,” Viktor interposed, glancing worriedly at the girl in question. “Not tonight, Chris.”

“Sorry, my dear, my lips are sealed,” Christophe apologized.

Phichit narrowed his eyes. “Chris, my ultimatum on the pool pictures still stands.”

“But who am I to deny a lady?” Christophe continued without missing a beat.

“No, wait!” Viktor rushed to cover Christophe’s mouth with his hands.

“Hold him down,” Phichit urged.

Those at the table who, besides Yuurika, were left out of the joke (namely JJ, Isabella, Minako, Mari, and Otabek), promptly complied.

“Well,” drew out Christophe, clearly relishing the suspense, “It went something like this.”

Flashback to about one year ago at the post-final banquet at Sochi -

Chris, who was by now in his career resigned to the tedium of mingling with the glittering gentility, heard something very interesting.

“I mean, Yuuri doesn’t really even get drunk, per say,” Phichit explains, leaning in conspiratorially. “Just… he can't hold liquor well. Like, any liquor. And can never remember a thing afterwards. It's hilarious,” he ends with a laugh.

“Really? How so?” Chris asked with an air of professional interest.

“Nah, you're not getting that out of me,” Phichit denies him. “I'm Yuuri's best friend. I can't go handing out that info. Besides, you've got to see it to believe it,” he threw over his shoulder, taking his leave to chat up a sponsor.

Seeing is believing huh? Challenge accepted. Time for a little Giacometti magic.

Chris wandered nonchalantly into the bar offset from the main banquet room, where a subdued Yuuri peered nearsightedly at the list of offerings.

“Hey there, Yuuri, how are you doing?” Christophe queried, concern positively dripping from each word.

“Hello, Christophe. I'm just… really thirsty for some reason. Do you know the word to order virgin in Russian?”

Christophe didn’t, but he knew a better one. "Neat,” he addressed the bartender in his own tongue, pointing to a likely looking option. “One of those.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri told him gratefully.

“Not at all, dear boy,” Christophe demurred honestly. That couldn’t have gone better than if he’d custom-designed the setup himself in advance. Someone up there really loved him today.

“This sure tastes like it has alcohol in it,” Yuuri said, lips pursed.

“Oh no, it's just the water here,” Christophe lied glibly.

“But the water in the room taps didn't taste like this at all.”

“It's the filters. Amazing what they can do with those these days.”

Yuuri stared at his drink doubtfully, looking very much as if he was contemplating how to call Christophe a liar inoffensively.

“Yuuri, would I lie to you?” Christophe appealed guilelessly.

With that final thrust, that beautiful Japanese nonconfrontationalism won out. Yuuri looked up at him with an expression of innocent trust, and downed a gulp.

Really, too precious. A lamb among ice piranhas. Chris almost felt bad enough to come clean. Almost.

“Hi, Chris! Who’s that with you?”

Ah, Viktor Nikiforov was now officially in the house. Excellent. Christophe’s good friend-slash-rival was someone who he had long noticed things _happened_ around. Not sure how; he was just a happening guy. All unpremeditated of course, which is just how Christophe preferred it. Maybe it was time for a substitution of players.

“Excuse me, Yuuri.” Christophe rose smoothly from the barstool and traipsed nonchalantly towards his next pawn - he meant precious fellow contestant. “Hi yourself Viktor. Congratulations on another great showing.”

“Thank you! You did a superb job too. If it weren’t for me, you’d be raking in the gold! Too bad we’re about the same age; you’ll never get a chance at the top until I retire.”

Did Christophe also mention how charmingly (gratingly) honest and obtuse his great pal Viktor was? “Right, right, thanks. So, you were asking about Yuuri over there?”

“That’s not Yuri,” Viktor corrected him kindly. “Yuri’s underage. And all the bartenders serving in cities with Russian rinks hide the vodka when he’s within sight of the premises.” He didn’t mention that that was due to a horrible misunderstanding that had everything to do with Viktor (and maybe Christophe), a rusty mailbox, and barely anything with Yuri Plisetsky (and nothing with Yuuri Katsuki). And no one even got to drink any vodka that day. But that’s a story for another time.

“And he didn’t dye his hair in the past two minutes either,” Christophe finished impatiently. “No, that’s Yuuri Katsuki.You know, the other Yuri?”

“There’s two of them now!?” Viktor asked, alarmed.

Christophe didn’t deign to answer that. “Yuuri’s feeling down after the past final - I don’t think his scores were too good.”

“Poor guy!” Viktor sent a genuine glance of pity towards the dim figure downing the dregs of his drink. Did Christophe yet note that the living legend was somewhat of a bleeding heart? Well, he was, which made him delightfully easy to manipulate - he meant appreciate.

“Maybe you should go talk to him. You know, cheer him up a bit,” Christophe suggested offhandedly.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Viktor was caught, hook, line, and sinkhole. “You’re very thoughtful, aren’t you, Chris?”

“Thoughtful, yes, that’s me.” Christophe shooed him on his way, and melted silently into the wings for the Phichit-promised good times to commence rolling.

Viktor, it turned out, took great pride in his talent to cheer people up. He cared deeply about his rinkmates, and strove to be a shining light in their far too stressful lives. Mila was always perpetually cheerful, so he wasn’t as concerned about her, but he felt he contributed to Yakov’s continued and Yuri’s boundless energy (and also increasing and potential grey hair, as Yakov was wont to point out, but Viktor conveniently ignored that part). Georgi he dismissed as a lost cause. He couldn’t touch his issues with a ten foot pole (Viktor had tried to relate once, but found he generally had the opposite problems).

Anyway, time to shed that Nikiforov starlight on another gloomy soul.

Viktor approached the bar.

“Hello, Yuuri,” Viktor greeted with a wave, trying out the lilt Christophe had used on the half-familiar name. The length of the first syllable felt strange but pleasant on his tongue.

“Viktor?!” The poor child jumped then froze up stiff like a deer in headlights. His eyes were clearly red-rimmed from prior tears, but they’d dried now. “What are you doing here? With me? Not a poster?” His cheeks flushed like a fire engine.

_A poster?_ Maybe he meant for autographs? Viktor sincerely hoped he wasn’t supposed to be signing more posters today. He didn’t want to know how much Mila would charge to forge another batch of signatures. “Oh, just taking a break for a bit,” said Viktor casually. He didn’t want to overwhelm the boy. “I was just in a Kazatsky dance-off.”

“A kaz-what now?” Yuuri mangled.

“That squat and kick dance,” Viktor elaborated.

“Oh.” Yuuri blinked. “Who won?”

“I did, of course,” Viktor declared proudly.

“Congratulations. I'm sorry I missed it,” Yuuri told him politely. His interest may have been feigned (Viktor found that to be an all-too-common reaction when he tried to share the wonders of his native land's traditional dance with his international friends and acquaintances), but he thought it awfully decent of him nonetheless.

"Well, it was really more of a tie," Viktor demurred modestly. "Yuri had to bow out due to a... wardrobe malfunction. Prisyadka is terribly harsh on suits, you see."

Yuuri didn't look like he did see, but hummed in sympathy anyway.

"Do you perform any traditional dances from your country, Yuuri?" Viktor shifted smoothly. He was from-China? Taiwan? The Philippines? Viktor for the life of him couldn't recall all the countries represented by the junior skaters.

"I've danced the Bon Odori during O-Bon, and learnt Chu no Mai," Yuuri admitted.

"Chu-huh?"

"The fan dance," Yuuri condensed.

They made fans in China, right? He was pretty sure his tabletop fan bore a label printed with exactly those words. "I've never seen a guy dance with fans before," Viktor commented curiously.

"Some do, but we were mostly girls," Yuuri said simply.

Viktor shrugged internally. Whatever floated his more than one cat, if that was how the saying went (It may have been the case that Viktor had a bit of difficulty with foreign idioms).

“So, Chris told me you didn’t do so hot today,” Viktor broached the subject sensitively.

“Nn, yeah…” Yuuri sniffed sadly. “I… there was a lot going on. I don’t want to talk about it too much, I mean, I don’t want to bother you… I guess I wasn’t at the top of my game. There was no way I could win in that state.”

“How can you expect to win, if you don't have the mindset of a winner? You have to believe in yourself,” Viktor reproved sternly.

“How could I do that, the way I am?” Yuuri sighed forlornly into his glass.

“Don’t think that way. Well, I mean, I haven’t seen you skate, since you’re in the junior division -”

“I’m not!” Yuuri turned towards him and fully met his gaze for the first time that night. “I skated right before you today! You were staring right at me!”

“Oh, that was you?” Viktor could recall _someone_ of course skating before him, but his memory of it was vague. Now that he mentioned it, he could remember - “You were the one with the girly hips and wobble when you walk -”

Yuuri worried his lip, a new batch of tears brimming beneath lowered lids.

“And couldn’t land most of your jumps? Sorry, you seem awfully small for your age, so I didn’t realize, but that’s great - it just means you have a goal to work towards. Oh, but I guess you can't really do anything about that height thing.” Viktor finally exited his interior analysis and observed his listener, who was currently wiping snot from his dripping nose with a polyester sleeve.

“Viktor…” He moaned sadly.

Uh oh, time to change the subject.

“Yuuri, do you have a special someone waiting for you at home?” Thinking of his girlfriend should cheer him up!

“No.” Oh. Uh.

“Have you ever had one?” Viktor asked desperately. Georgi, the only other fellow he’d ever seen this despondant, seemed to draw (a dank dismal sort of) strength from thinking of lost loves, which would still be preferable to the limp puddle that Yuuri appeared ready to melt into currently.

Yuuri winced and hunched in, like a turtle unexpectedly high-served into a six-lane highway. “No comment.” Viktor was certain (and for the first time that conversation, actually correctly) that that meant ‘no’ even more than the first ‘no’.

“Well, don’t worry!” Viktor smiled at him encouragingly to salvage the situation. “I’m sure there's a wonderful, amazing girl just waiting to meet and fall in love with you.”

Yuuri just observed his tears plopping from the tip of his nose into his glass. Viktor discovered that he really disliked seeing Yuuri cry. Intensely. It went beyond disgusting him to something repellant to his very nature.

“And if it takes awhile,” Viktor continued, panicking, “Chris tells me facial hair is in with the ladies, it’d be something to try. You'd probably be able to grow even more than me!” He had no basis for this statement, of course, but he figured neither did any of the motivational speakers he sometimes overheard Georgi listen to after his breakups. Maybe he should tell Yuuri he had ‘a lot to bring to the table’ next. Or maybe to keep his head down and his chin up, along with a stiff upper lip.

“You're acting so nice to me...” Yuuri wailed, looking about ready to lean into Viktor's shoulder and cuddle up there for head pats.

Viktor found he wouldn’t have minded all that much - there was just something so endearing about him - but he still had snot swiped on his cheaply made suitsleeves.

”...But you’re so bad at it,” Yuuri finally concluded his previous statement. Viktor generously let it go.

“Well, anyway,” Viktor clapped him on the back consolingly. "I have faith in you. There's always next season. You'll get your chance.”

Yuuri considered this pronouncement with great deliberation, then finally announced his own conclusion.“I guess so. Maybe.”

And now, to close with something inspiring. There was a certain phrase Viktor generally used in such cases, which always seemed to work on Yuri, judging from his increased colour after their little chats (Viktor, it was to be noted, had not quite gotten a grasp on the difference between blooming determination and the flush of anger). Viktor did know what he wanted to say in Russian, and he had heard there was a similar phrase which he had absolutely no idea how to pronounce in Japanese. But global trendsetter that he was, Vitkor had never let language barriers stop him before, and he was not about to now, in his fellow sportsman's hour of need. Ransacking his brain, Viktor finally landed upon a phrase he’d heard once in some English movie that should be close enough to get his point across. Viktor rested a supporting hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Man up,” he told him, “and grow some -”

Eyebrows raised, Christophe whistled under his breath. Not the phrasing he would have chosen, especially in the current polite society.

Yuuri stood up, a determined expression in his eyes. Viktor smiled approvingly. It looked like his encouragement had taken effect already. He congratulated himself on a job well done.

That is, until Yuuri cleanly threw his just topped-off tall glass of water into Viktor’s face, and executed an absolutely stunning high kick that connected solidly with his chin.

Yuri Plisetsky, who had wandered that direction (punctuated by self-conscious surreptitious tugs on the lower hem of his suit jacket - he privately vowed to never listen to Viktor’s ‘fun ideas’ ever again) in search of a refill of his Shirley Temple, dropped his beverage with a startled ”Meep.”

The crystal shattered like the illusions of all who witnessed this new contender.

Katsuki Yuurika, you see, took after her mama.

Viktor went reeling backwards with his back to the bar, struck speechless by the one-two metaphorical punch combo (He hoped to goodness that it would stay metaphorical- he wasn't sure how much more of this roughhousing from the petite Asian bruiser he could take).

Yuurika stalked forward, looming over the cowering Russian prodigy, and grabbed a fistful of (sinfully expensive) designer tie.

Pinning him to the bar with her gimlet gaze, she spoke distinctly, each word low and threatening, carrying throughout the bar. “No one, not even you, can make something out of nothing. I'm not capable of winning the men’s senior Grand Prix. But by all means, prove me wrong, you chauvinistic prig. You haven't the -” She paused, testing the words on her acidic tongue. “ _Intestinal fortitude_.”

She turned, strode purposefully out of the ballroom, made her way to her suite, and immediately passed out without a single recollection of the past half-hour.

“Wow,” breathed Viktor, wiping his face with his (dry-clean only) sleeve.

Christophe winced in sympathy. “Yeah.”

"Did he just double dog dare me?" Viktor stared at Christophe incredulously.

"Remember, Viktor, dares are just ways to manipulate poor fools into making stupid decisions so you can laugh at them," Christophe cautioned. He should know, having done so himself on several memorable occasions.

Viktor rubbed his aching chin. "I know. But this is about skating, Chris! No one calls me incompetent on matters of the ice! It's a point of honor!"

"I'm sure you'll get over it soon enough," Christophe predicted wisely.

Viktor frowned, wishing he had the record to disagree.

Christophe watched the way Yuuri went with a meditative air, taking notice of the tense atmosphere. The confrontation fortunately hadn't carried into the main hall, making the only witnesses Christophe, Viktor, Yuri, Phichit (who had been en route to ask if Yuurika was ready to retire to their rooms, their schmoozIng quotient filled for the night), and the thoroughly discombobulated local bartender who wondered exactly what blasphemous thing the handsome gentleman had said to so offend the other handsome... gentleman. He used the term the second time loosely. That man had obviously been unable to handle his vodka.

The five exchanged glances.

“We'll never speak of this again, unless in dire need,” Christophe commanded.

Three out of the four agreed.

Christophe repeated himself in Russian.

The bartender nodded emphatically.

End flashback -

“I can never show myself in public again,” Yuurika groaned, smooshing her face against the table. She shielded herself from the world with both arms covering her head. “Is that why you acted like you didn’t even know who I was at the airport?”

“Well, you were freaking scary,” Viktor admitted. “I tried to go for a mix of polite but distant.” (Apparently ‘polite but distant’ on Viktor equaled low-key snubbing. This was also, incidentally, the reason he had chosen to caress Yuurika's jawline rather than lips that day in Ice Castle Hasestu before her eros debut. While he suspected the latter would have given her a bigger jumpstart into the arrogant, brash competitive mode he had witnessed firsthand at the banquet, Viktor preferred to keep his fingers unbitten if given the choice, thank you very much.) “I had assumed this whole time that you remembered everything. _Somebody_ ,” Viktor punctuated his apology with a glare at the referenced instigator, “neglected to tell me otherwise.”

“I'm sooo sorry,” Yuurika moaned in his general direction.

"That's my line." He still didn't entirely know what he had said wrong (Chris had refused to translate afterwards, and he hadn’t known how to spell ‘chauvinistic’), but even despite that, Viktor knew that were he a millipede, he'd still have run out of feet he'd put in his mouth. "I guess neither of us were at our best that night," he understated.

“So, it's all Christophe's fault,” Yuri accused.

“No, it's Phichit's,” Christophe deflected.

“Where was Celestino?” asked Minako.

“Oh, he was trying to find the rental car. It was towed after the valet parked it illegally,” Phichit supplied.

“So that’s what you two were talking about in China!” recalled Viktor.

“If you're telling us all this now, what exactly was in those pool pictures?” Otabek wondered.

This was an excellent question, which we unfortunately do not have time for right now. You see, Phichit had just been distracted by something(s) far more important.

“Yuuri, what is that?” he asked, pointing to the small glittering band on Yuurika’s head-shielding interlaced fingers.

Yuurika finally sat upright at the table like a normal human being and rotated the ring in the flickering light. “Oh, this? I’ve been looking for some for a while, and found this in a shop on the way here. They were so cheap, I just had to get a couple! Did you have them in Thailand too?”

“Yes, I think they’re pretty universal,” Phichit said slowly.

“Apparently, Yuuri decided we needed them for my upcoming birthday,” Viktor elaborated, clearly unenthused, as he displayed his matching orb.

Those at the table had varying reactions: Yuri’s eyes narrowed dangerously, Phichit reached for his phone, Christophe choked on his tapas, JJ’s trademark grin slipped a couple watts in shock, Isabella clasped her hands with tiny hearts bubbling in her eyes, Minako gaped, Mari spat out her drink, and Otabek wiped his face.

Phichit glowered at his camera settings. “I can’t believe you made her pay for them.”

Christophe cleared his throat. “Um, Viktor, you do know what rings of that type symbolize, right?”

Viktor returned Christophe’s concerned look nonplussed. “According to the paperwork they came with, it's ‘tired, energetic, and also associated with food,’ if I remember correctly.”

JJ and Isabella gasped.

Christophe coughed. “Not… exactly.”

Yuurika glanced at all the tense faces, befuddled. “Did you all want me to buy you rings, too?”

“Like hell,” Yuri exploded, face red.

Phichit’s ex-roomie senses were tingling. “Oh, I get it.” He reached over to Yuurika’s clenched hands, and gently rubbed the ring. As he expected, a red streak slowly formed beneath the strokes. He laughed in realization (and relief). “Only you, Yuuri, could turn mood rings into engagement rings.”

Now it was Yuurika and Viktor’s turn for spittakes.

As Viktor gasped for air, Yuurika attempted to even imagine the notion. “Yeah, when I win gold at the final,” she said sarcastically. No matter what she pretended when with Viktor, here in this room, having dinner with her coach and competitors, she knew where she stood with both, and so did they. She wouldn’t delude herself with unattainable visions of grandeur. She was a woman competing in a man’s sport, inherently designed for a different physique than she possessed. And she was a nobody who was fortunate enough to have the best of the best for a coach, but just a coach: not a miracle worker, not a significant other (and with no desire to be one to her - he’d had plenty of opportunities, and he’d never made a single move to transition their relationship _Viktors just didn’t love Yuuris_ ). She knew it, they all knew, and most especially, Viktor knew. There were some things that were just the way they were. She glanced at him to gauge his reaction.

Viktor, finally recovered from his fit, stared at her with tears in his eyes.

“...What?” Yuri growled threateningly, nails digging into the wood of the table.

Otabek looked torn between clapping for the happy couple and being forced to place his friend in a chokehold.

“Gold, huh?” Christophe smirked at the sheer cheek. “Now I’m almost sorry to steal it from you.”

Minako covered her mouth in emotion. “I can’t believe you’ve finally done it! And before me...” Her forehead knitted in consternation.

Mari texted her mother to tell her she just won two thousand yen from her father.

“I want to congratulate you, but is that even legal in Russia? Or Japan for that matter?” JJ frowned at the mounting difficulties. “And -”

“JJ,” Isabella interrupted, “Like they told you, Yuuri is a -”

“Don’t fall for their trick, Isabella!”

Yuurika was mind-boggled. “I was just joking,” she announced nervously.

Phichit patted her back consolingly. “We know, we know. I mean, this is one of two nights in the year when we have to avoid drama like the plague. Who with any sense would go and get engaged the night before finals? Right, guys?”

“Right!” Christophe flashed a thumbs up.

JJ and Isabella surreptitiously each hid a hand under the table.

Mari hastily composed a second text, this time to her father telling him not to pay out just yet.

“You’re presupposing that either of them have any sense to begin with,” Yuri pointed out.

Yuurika ignored them. “Viktor?”

His beautiful storm-blue eyes still had crystalline tears clinging to his pale soft lashes and spilling unheeded down his cheeks.

“Huh, I guess that wasn’t from coughing,” Phichit surmised. “Don’t worry, Yuuri, those are happy tears. Right, Viktor?”

After long seconds, Viktor awoke back to life, face still inscrutable. He took a shuddering breath in. “Yes, yes they are,” he affirmed finally.

Yuurika desperately wished she could believe him.

Their dinner finished, the large group wended their way back to the hotel. Somehow, Yuurika ended up walking alongside her sensei and her sister.

“That banquet story was ridiculous! It was just like the time I met your mother, Yuuri,” Minako told her, laughing at her private memory.

“I didn’t even mean to drink,” Yuurika protested feebly.

“Yeah, neither did she. That must also run in the family.”

“Hic,” said Mari.

Minako groaned. “Seriously, I only let you have a sip.”

“Yabai.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t try pretty much any of this at home, kids, or anywhere for that matter, especially the part about lying about alcohol content and tricking anyone into drinking alcohol, for obvious reasons. Getting drunk, tricking others into drinking, or drinking when you shouldn’t, in reality, is not amusing and is absolutely wrong, for more than your health. You might kill your Yuuri. Uh, forging signatures is wrong too.  
> Are you curious about how Minako and Hiroko met, why Isabella and JJ hid their hands under the table, why everyone hides the vodka when Yuri shows up, and what exactly Phichit found Christophe doing at the pool? Well then you should check out the story collection Hashtag Y So Extra, chapters #LoveTap, #AllTheSingleLadies, #Godfather, and #IcePiranha respectively (to be posted soon).


	27. #CrossingBurningBridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuri peels off the kid gloves and launches them in Viktor's face.

Two quietly dropped out of the walk from the bar to the hotel.

The second one was Yuri. After conversing with Otabek for a while (It was refreshing to not have to talk to idiots about idiots for a change), he noticed a lone figure slipping away from the group. Taking his leave of his new friend, he decided to trail him.

Yuri followed the shadowy outline to a railing along the docks just off the path, away from prying eyes, dimly lit from behind by a tungsten lamppost.

Yuri was irritated. This man had pretty much made his entire life hell ( _No, not him, he only distracted you from the true hell inside you_ , his deeper, more honest self reminds him, but Yuri’s always ignored it before and has no intention of changing now). And here he was, holding up his hand to the lamp and moon light, admiring his new trinket like a clever, unassailable dragon adding yet another treasure to his already bursting hoard. Well, Yuri didn’t like that. And when there was something Yuri didn’t like, just as a knight faced with a wily serpent, he took action.

Yuri lifted his sneakered foot. Balancing appraisingly, he considered his options. His signature move was a front kick - but apparently his current target had already received a memorable one, and he didn’t want his to be compared unfavorably to a girl’s. He recalled some tai chi practiced by those stick-wielding monks back in Hasestu, and derived an idea of how he could mix this up. That decided, he tucked his foot behind his hip, swung around, and let it fly.

His roundhouse kick struck solidly in Viktor’s right abdomen.

“Huurgh!” Viktor wheezed, clamping a hand over his side and turning to glare at the hoodied punk.

Huh. Still crying.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” Viktor demanded angrily.

“What the hell’s wrong with _you_!?” Yuri shot back. “You know those rings don’t mean anything.” They weren’t anything to _cry_ over.

Viktor looked down at the hand currently rubbing his sore lower ribs. “I think they mean _something_ ,” he said in a low voice, unsure of himself. “But not…”

The genius skater Viktor Nikiforov was never unsure of himself. Yuri grit his teeth.

“If you don’t know, find out! Don’t know what those rings mean? Ask her! Don’t know if she can win gold? Go back there and help her win it!” He howled. _It’s too late for me to ask, ask anyone anything, but not for you, don’t waste it_. Yuri surprised himself - he hadn’t even formed the words consciously, and it wasn’t like it mattered to him either way ( _Don’t lie, Yuri, nothing matters more to you now besides your grandpa_ , said that obnoxious part that should go and gag itself).

Viktor choked, making little hollow, retching noises. The hell, was that supposed to be _laughter_? He finally subsided. “That’s… I can’t, Yuri. Not… now.”

Yuri stared at him. “Why?”

Viktor remained silent, still gazing down at the sparkling ring resting on his side.

Yuri’s voice dipped lower. “Because of the finals?” That media junkie had good sense once in a while.

“... Yes.” Viktor muttered faintly. Yuri got the vibe that there was more to say, but let the matter slide.

They remained quiet in the night, listening to doors opening and closing, people chattering and traipsing along nearby street, and the slow water still churning beneath them.

Viktor finally broke the spell. “It’s time to go back. Don’t worry about any of this and concentrate on your final, I’ll take care of it.” He turned away from the tall railing.

“You always say that, and then go and do stupid stuff and expect me and Yakov to bail out your sorry ancient behind,” Yuri retorted, still watching him without moving.

Viktor laughed - in a more human-sounding way this time. Good. “Thanks for always looking out after me, Yuri.”

“It’s like, who’s the grown-up here?” Yuri groaned, head raised to the heavens. And seriously, what kind of idiot gives a grown man a set of matching mood rings for his birthday in the first place? Maybe they did deserve each other ( _If so, where does that leave you_ \- shut up shut _up_ ). “Whatever.” He finally began walking back.

They strode in silence for a time, until Yuri realized he ought to clarify something important.

“When I said that you should win gold with Plain Vanilla, I didn’t mean that you’ll be _able_ to do it. I’m still gonna win.”

Viktor just laughed again and ruffled Yuri’s hair through his hood.

Yuri slapped his hand away (He didn’t flinch at the cold touch of the ring).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good kids don’t kick their elders. Actually, they don’t kick things in general, except things meant for kicking, like punching bags (in kickboxing), footballs, and dangerous perverts.  
> If you'd like an example of Yuri bailing out Viktor *from a certain point of view ahem*, you might want to check out Hashtag Y So Extra's [#Godfather](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11286867/chapters/25601328)


	28. #GoldDigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing and everything changes.

“Why did you choose love?” Yuri asked abruptly.

Yuurika paused from lacing up her skates for the Grand Prix Final short program practice the morning after the bar meetup. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I chose love?” Yuurika echoed, not able to bridge the sudden leap in subjects.

“For your season theme.” Yuri kicked the ice with his toepick, the hunching of his petite frame over the task betraying his discomfort.

It must be important for him to know, Yuurika reasoned. She’d try her best to be honest. “For me, love is like flying,” she responded thoughtfully, giving a final tug at her laces and hoisting herself off the bench.

Yuri scowled at her, clearly disappointed. “You mean that butterflies in your stomach nonsense?”

“No, not really.” Yuurika chuckled at the thought. “I mean I just really want to fly. I mean, I really, really want to. You know those flying dreams? It’s like you know deep in your soul you were always meant to fly. But I can’t. And skating is the closest I can get to it. So that’s what I chose to do, from when I was very young. And when I think about love, it’s like we were all meant to be in love with someone, and have someone love us back for who we are. But that’s impossible for me.”

“How do you know?” Yuri interrupted.

“I just… know,” Yuurika hedged.

“How?” A demand.

A choking sensation filled Yuurika’s chest, thickening both her thoughts and her words. Of course the petite ball of anger who invaded her onsen to steal her coach (but really was nicer than he looked, she had to admit) would be the one who challenged her sole method of holding herself together (especially with Viktor as her coach). In the course of her crazy life, she’d learned everything was so much simpler if you just stopped believing in what was always out of your reach. “I’m older than you, Yuri,” she finally ground out, picking her way to the rink.

Yuri looked unsatisfied, warily considering her from the ice. Mercifully, he left it alone. “So, for you, skating is love, or a substitute.”

“I guess.” Yuurika was ready to be done with this conversation. She picked up speed, shooting away from Yuri into laps about the ellipse. “Sorry if it doesn’t make sense.” A few moments of silence followed her half-apology. Good. No need to talk. They were there to practice, after all.

“I’ve heard that part about the next best thing to flying before, though. Otabek said the same thing about his motorcycle.”

“You asked him why he rode a motorcycle?” Yuurika asked absentmindedly.

“...No…”

Yuurika glanced up. Was that a blush? Oho, she thought. “You asked him about love?”

A strangled noise was her only answer as they whizzed past each other in a shower of scraped snow.

“Look at you, having deep conversations with your new friend right off the bat,” Yuurika teased him. She really couldn’t help it. For all his anger management issues, Yuri Plisetsky was the embodiment of honesty. It was rare for her to find an opportunity to exploit it.

A scowl and snarl clearly signaled Yuri’s thoughts on the matter. “Shut up and skate, Plain Vanilla.”

Tempting, but while they were on the subject of personal questions - “Yuri,” she called.

“What,” he huffed shortly, not even sparing her a glance as he bent back his foot to his thigh.

“Why do you think Viktor came to Japan to coach?” she asked him curiously.

“Hell if I know,” the ice tiger growled. “But one thing's for sure - it wasn't because of your shoddy video.”

Yuurika nodded thoughtfully, ignoring the proffered bait (and the fact that he’d just implicitly admitted to viewing it himself). He was right; she’d been thinking that too.

If the video Viktor had seen all those months ago had been truly exceptional, had showcased her raw talent just waiting for guidance to the gold, that would have been one thing. But that simply wasn’t the case; it was a late-night imitation performed on a whim. And even besides that, despite her brazen challenge at the banquet - which Viktor had quite cheerfully ignored for months - he was quick to accept Yuri’s call to fight for his tutelage. Did it not matter to Viktor who he coached, as long as he coached someone? She wasn’t sure why _he was crying at the bar last night_ all this was bothering her now - but it was.

She thought about it, and Yuri’s previous question, all through her short program - which she ended up placing middling in. Yuri however breezed right past her to finish in the top spot, which both elated and terrified her.

###

"I'm going to miss this," said Yuurika, nostalgia brimming prematurely.

Viktor cocked his head at her. "Lunges? Really? I'm more of a toe-touch person myself."

"Not that." Yuurika eased out of the aforementioned post-performance stretch, soaking up the backstage structure and sound of the Barcelona rink. "All of this. Professional ice figure skating, in general."

"You'll get a short break, Yuuri, but you know the time between seasons is short," Viktor reminded her as they moved towards the exit. "You can't think too far ahead."

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Yuurika objected, pulling on a coat and mittens (They both slipped on easily, as she’d neglected to wear her mood ring for her short program as it would clash with the projected image she wished to portray. She was curious if Viktor had worn his, but had been too preoccupied with her skating to check before he’d donned his own pair of gloves. "And what do you mean, break between seasons?"

"Next year's season? It's not that far away! Remember what's coming up? There's only a week after that until the new year! Don't tell me you've already forgotten your coach's birthday?" Viktor pouted at her, turning back as he led their trek back to the hotel.

"Of course I'd never forget your birthday," she admonished, following him through the door into the cool crisp night air. "But you won't be my coach anymore by then."

Viktor stopped short. "What?" He gave her his undivided attention, his voice neutral, guarded.

"The Grand Prix will be over tomorrow."

"Yes, so?" A few intrepid flakes of ice crystals separated from their solid brethren in the rink fell slowly downward to reunite. A few unlucky _they were the lucky ones_ caressed the standing pair with wet touches.

"You've only planned to be my coach until the Grand Prix final, remember?" Yuurika prompted gently. "All that you said (um, soul-baringly, to put it one way) in the onsen, about coaching me to win gold at the final?"

"That's my goal and my promise, though I don’t say it often anymore so Yuri won’t get jealous," corroborated Viktor. "Since I’m coaching the two of you, I’m working towards you tying for gold. But either way, it’s not like that's the expiration of my contract or something."

"That wasn't a verbal contract?"

"No! We didn't even arrange rates or fees or anything!"

"Didn't Mari discuss that with you when she began wiring the money from my savings account with my parents?"

He stared at her silently in the snow. "... Maybe you should check the balance on that."

"Yabai. I'm really sorry." Yuurika swept her hands through her brief hair in exasperation. "I should have checked a long time ago. Well, it's not like the money is stolen, and I can pay you interest."

"Forget interest!" Viktor suddenly exploded, the full weight of Yuurika's insinuations hitting him full force without mercy. "You mean, all this time, you thought we're ending this after the Grand Prix?"

"Yes, that was what we both agreed, right?" She blinked at him in befuddlement, flipping lashes dislodging sparkling melted drops.

“So, back at the airport after Rostelecom, when you asked me to be your coach until you retire…” Viktor prompted.

“I meant until tomorrow,” she affirmed. "After all, you have your career to get back to. It's high time I started mine."

Her coach was at a loss. "What do you call what you're currently doing, then?"

"I call it doing what I love. But this was something I did for university, for my scholarship and to pay my way, and I've graduated now."

This piece of news surprised Viktor far more than it should have. "You did? When?"

"Right before Sochi," she recalled. "I missed the ceremony to be there. Not that I minded or anything! I've never seen the point to them anyway."

"Of course you don't," he retorted with something near disgust.

Now it was Yuurika's turn to assume undue astonishment. "That's what Phichit said!"

"Of course he did," Viktor repeated glumly.

"And, to be honest, even if I could have gone, I was getting pretty tired of wearing a suit," Yuurika confided in a confidential near-whisper. "I mean, they're so drab and blah and indistinguishable from each other. And despite that, everyone expects you to wear a different one to each event." Not that Yuurika had ever owned more than the one suit. She tried to mix it up so no one would notice, with new dress shirt and tie combinations, and, occasionally, when she was feeling particularly daring, socks of varying shades of grey. She sincerely hoped no one had seen through the illusion.

Viktor by now, of course, had, and for a while too. But even ignoring her frustrating yet endearing cheapskate ways, he couldn't help but agree with her opinion on men's formal wear. It was sexist. That's what it was. It was also totally beside the point right now, and he refused to be distracted. He demanded, "What type of degree did you earn?"

As one of a minority under two counts in her chosen field, this female Asian skater may have carried a slight chip, more of a fleck really, on her shoulder about this. "A B.S."

There was a pun in there with that acronym and what Viktor wanted to label this whole situation, but he restrained himself.

"STEM fields are in high demand right now, but still pretty competitive," Yuurika continued obliviously. "I managed to receive several job offers right after graduation, and was choosing between _running away from_ them when you showed up. I declined them all."

"You applied for other jobs?" He asked with (unreasonable) incredulity. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I guess it just never came up," she admitted in a small voice. “It was before you came.” Viktor’s agitation felt surreal. It wasn’t like she was announcing her intention to kick him out of the ryokan at the close of the finals. She couldn't fathom why he was so upset about this.

Viktor by this point no longer cared about a valid excuse to be. "What, you just listed professional figure skating as a hobby on your resume?"

"I know a team sport or organization would have carried more weight than figure skating," she rationalized, "but -"

"Did you choose skating for enjoyment or for gain?" He posed the question point blank, ignoring the ice and chill of the bitter wind now sweeping about them.

She gazed back at him blankly, shivering involuntarily. "Both." But the one more than the other. Yuurika only even noticed ice figure skating existed because of Yuuko showing her the Russian prodigy standing before her now, after all. But professionally - she wouldn’t lie to him.

"Have you been skating with me as your coach, all this time in Hasetsu, because you wanted to, or - or for other reasons?" His face looked so tortured, like her revelation had shaken his entire worldview.

Because _he_ wanted her to, is that what he meant? "It's not like that." Yuurika hesitated, searching for the right words to make him see. She wanted to explain the way she had earlier that morning to Yuri, but for some reason the words just didn't come as easily now. "Like I said, I love figure skating - I've loved every second of it. I wouldn't change a thing. But you know what I'm talking about, don't you?" She appealed to him with a heartfelt glance. "My career had a heavy courseload with a narrow path of prerequisites, so I took an extra year. It’s been months since I’ve graduated. I've just turned twenty-four now. You're four years older than me; haven't you thought about what you're going to do after skating?"

She was answered by absolute thunderous silence, pressing upon her far heavier than the thickening blanket of snow. She couldn't see his face - he must have shifted to a blind spot between the sodium-yellow lamps. All she could make out was that he was gazing downwards, and not towards her.

"Oh, Viktor." And in that moment, a bystander would have mistaken which was the student and which the coach. "Neither one of us can skate forever. You're not Peter Pan."

"The boy who never grows up?" Viktor's voice emanated from the shadow that had replaced his visage. "I've never pretended to be."

Yuurika regarded him sadly. "I can't keep on surprising you, you know."

"It's not - It's not me that I want you to keep surprising." Viktor swallowed, then blurted out the rest. "Don't give up what you love so soon. Yuuri, I know you've got so much more, years left, to amaze the whole world on the ice."

"Because you did? Because you still do?" She parried. "I'm not you. I can't be you. You have to remember - my gender."

"Right, your gender." He laughed shortly and mirthlessly. "How could I neglect to remember that?"

She tried to explain, to maintain an even, calm tone. "I'm not married, and I have no prospects or likelihood to be."

The words used to bestow a greater pain once, but continued repetition in front of her mirror morning after morning had deadened their effect. An attachment would have been a liability in her case, with her long deception, even if she had had any takers. And while she knew of many women older than her who had quit the single life _none of whom Yuurika was remotely like she'd never be able to she was unloveable_ , she knew several strong beautiful women who didn't, Mari and Minako foremost among them (And if Sara Crispino didn’t place her rabid brother on a tight leash, she would be joining their ranks soon). Yuurika wasn't scared nor excited, but she was resigned. She was a realist.

And as such: "I need to think about how to support myself long term. And besides, even with everyone who's found out swearing to secrecy, my situation can't remain under wraps indefinitely. It's a ticking time bomb."

Viktor stiffened at her choice of final words. "Why are we even discussing this now?" He asked, colder than the flurries buffeting them.

"You're right." This wasn’t something they could afford right now, just before the final push. She was still hurt by his tone, but bravely pushed that aside. She was beginning to understand and sympathize with his disappointment _She was disappointed too he could have had a very different reaction to her declaration just now if he had chosen_. Yuurika would have dropped the matter there and then, but one sentence he had just said came back to her and melded with her pre-short program musings, bothering the back of her brain. "Viktor, don't you want back on the ice?"

"What?"

"You just said, don't give up what you love. Isn't that what you're doing for me right now?"

Now that she thought about it, though he'd occasionally joined her out on the rink for practice, it wasn't with the frequency she'd secretly been hoping for. Was it because of her, what he thought she expected of him? So that she wouldn't feel eclipsed by the shadow of her coach, or feel guilty about stealing him from the spotlight? Didn’t he know she’d realize?

“The fans want you back _I want you back_ , Viktor! The ice wants you back!” She gazed at him helplessly. “Can I not inspire the man who has always inspired me?”

“That's not…” Viktor bit his lip. “Yuuri, I didn't coach you to rekindle my inspiration to skate.”

“Why, then?” She questioned, boiling with a mix of frustration and curiosity.

"Yuuri." This was a new Viktor, one strained to his limits. "That's enough."

Yuurika shrank back. "I apologize, I'll stop. Nothing's set in stone yet; I've not made any post-season commitments.” She scuffed a booted foot through the layering snowdrifts. “And nothing has actually changed since... the beginning, actually. We were just operating under mistaken pretenses." A strain of pleading entered her voice unwilled. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss this afterwards.”

Viktor coughed, collecting himself. “You're right,” he said tightly. “Let’s forget about this until after the final; I don’t want you to be anxious for your free skate.” He rubbed his hands over his arms within his jacket. “We should go.”

They plodded slowly back to the hotel in silence, Yuurika trailing slightly behind Viktor, following the slope of his set shoulders. They shook off the snow and entered their separate rooms wordlessly, and left each other to their own restless sleep and foreboding dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Peter and Wendy.  
> [#AllTheSingleLadies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11286867/chapters/25684758) up, along with #IcePiranha before it.


	29. #CallSign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuurika discovers she's not the only one with secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st chapter of 6 chapter simultaneous update.

“You ready, Yuuri?”

As she and Viktor walked towards the free skate waiting area after warm-ups, Yuurika shivered. She couldn’t seem to shake the chill from her bones since last night’s conversation in the snow. Yabai. She didn’t need this now. She had enough to deal with, with her last chance at her free skate coming up. “I think I need to walk for bit. Alone.”

She felt a heavy warmth draped about her shoulders.

Viktor straightened his sleeves from beneath his removed greatcoat. “You keep it, Yuuri. Take your time. I’ll meet you here before it’s time to go in.” He tried out a smile, striving to regain their former repartee, but it was strained too thin and too stretched. “See you soon.”

“See you soon,” she echoed palely to his retreating back. When it was gone, she gathered his coat around her protectively and paced, returning to her miring thoughts. Yuurika contemplated both of her little talks from the previous day. She didn’t want to put off her future forever, to be irresponsible to herself, her fans, her friends and family. But there was more to it than that. She realized it had been bothering her for a while now: she didn’t know why Viktor decided to be her coach. She knew he loved surprises, and the challenge she presented (dared, actually, though she was unaware for so long of that fact). But it still did not explain why Viktor chose to come when he did. Nor why he was so reluctant to leave _unless he also felt -_.

She was rudely interrupted from her musing by an insistent buzzing at her side.

Feeling the vibration in her pocket, Yuurika absently took the call. Her mood ring, which she'd put on that morning as a sort of good luck-charm, clacked against the case. Though she'd eschewed it during her short program as detracting from the seducer theme and for fear of renewed teasing, she saw no harm in including it in her free skate. Especially since she placed it on the correct hand, and breathed slowly on it in an attempt the change to the colour to match her dark costume (which ended up being ineffective in the long run. She'd begun to despair of ever getting her rings to ever stick with a colour besides yellow. It was just her luck that out of all the mood rings in the world, she'd purchased the only two mood-defective ones). It would be even less of a concern if Viktor didn't wear his matching one, which she had doubted would even occur to him considered his cold reception to her gift. Just as on the previous night, she'd forgotten to double check his finger when they met this morning though. There was hardly anything she could do about it now - she needed to refocus on the task at hand. “Hello?” She answered in English.

_Mr. Nikiforov?_

Wrong phone! Yabai. Well, too late to hang up now. “No, sorry, he can’t come to the phone just now. May I take a message?”

_Well, it is urgent, but confidentiality dictates… with whom am I speaking?_ The feminine voice with a slight Russian cast asked firmly.

“... Katsuki Yuuri,” Yuurika replied faintly.

_Katsuki, Katsuki… ah, here, Yuurika Katsuki. You’ve been given permissions. Are you his… child?_

“What!? No! I’m his…” Yuurika gulped. His what, exactly? “Student.”

_Ah, that’s… unusual. Well, either way, Ms._ (Yuurika grimaced; not another one) _Katsuki, you’d better sit down._

Yuurika sat.

Two minutes later, Viktor finally came back, wiping his hands across his mouth. Glimpsing Yuuri sitting alone in the stands, he ran to greet her with all his prior enthusiasm.

“I’m back, Yuuri! Did you miss…” Viktor skidded to a stop.

Yuurika rose, turning towards him, his phone held limply at her side. Her face a blank porcelain mask, she stared straight into his eyes. Viktor had never seen such an expression on her. Not at Sochi, not at Beijing. Perhaps that was how she looked when Vicchan died? No, he did not believe even then, Viktor thought vaguely.

“Viktor.”

“Yes, Yuuri?” Viktor asked, mouth dry.

“You know I’ve never asked you anything. About your past, your personal life.”

Viktor swallowed.

“How could you keep this from me?” Yuurika’s low tone finally broke. It was soft, far too soft to be real. Like Yuurika herself, Viktor’s dazed mind supplied.

“Say something.”

“I -” Viktor stammered, balancing on the knife edge between sincerity and caution. “I was planning to tell you, but after the finals were over.”

“Too late.”

For so many things.

“I want to hear this from you, not from -” Yuurika’s hands clenched the phone in a vice-like grip, metal casing straining. She glared in condemnation. “Tell me the truth, Viktor.”

So, this was it. Viktor sighed. “Okay, you’re right.” He took a deep breath, and confessed. “I -”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to take a moment here (a bad place for it, I know, sorry, but I didn’t want to spoil this chapter) and offer a word of warning about the next chapter. It’s not gory or rated mature, nor as intense as a lot of the hurt/comfort stories for this fandom on this site, but this particular story is listed in the humour genre (though there are warning tags included!), and the next part of the story is different in tone from the previous parts of the story. By which I mean it’s... sad, I think anyway. And could contain triggers (I will list the ones I can think of at the end author’s note on the next chapter, to avoid spoilers).  
> If you don't need all this negativity in your life right now, particularly if you're going through a hard time for any reason, I suggest reading the next chapter (or not reading it at all if you prefer) and just running through the rest of the story in one go (If you choose to read to the end at all, of course it is entirely up to you. There are more sad bits in the rest of the chapters). You could read something funnier and better instead (As you know there's lots on this site; some of which are written by you!); there’s the extra chapters, which aren’t sad for sure, or that story where Yuuri is a chair (for some reason my links are getting eaten, but they're both on my profile).   
> I guess, what I mean to say is, I’m sorry for the tone shift, but hope you know it will be okay!  
> And I'm sorry it took so long between updates, there is a reason, but I'll spare you the details here!


	30. #DejaVu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn why. Why what? Why everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of 6 chapter simultaneous update.  
> Warning: Possible triggers (listed at end). Not graphic. Disclaimers at end.

\- Last night, between the hotel and the Barcelona rink -

“ _H_ _aven't you thought about what you're going to do after skating?"_

Why should he?

_"Oh, Viktor." And in that moment, a bystander would have mistaken which was the student and which the coach. "Neither one of us can skate forever. You're not Peter Pan."_

_"The boy who never grows up?" Viktor's voice emanated from the shadow that had replaced his visage. "I've never pretended to be."_

Though perhaps that’s who he will end up being _Peter remained suspended in time in Neverland, but without Wendy_

"Don't give up what you love so soon. Yuuri, I know you've got so much more, years left, to amaze the whole world on the ice."

_"Because you did? Because you still do?"_

Don’t say that, Yuuri. Please, not that.

_"I'm not married, and I have no prospects or likelihood to be."_

Viktor knew _he was the one who should be doing something about it_

“ _My gender -_ _it's a ticking time bomb._ _"_

That’s not the time bomb, the time bomb is -

_"Viktor, don't you want back on the ice? Can I not inspire the man who has always inspired me?_ ”

That’s not why he was here _and even if he were, it’s far too late for that_

“ _We were just operating under mistaken pretenses." A strain of pleading entered her voice unwilled. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss this afterwards.”_

How did she know the exact words to worst wound him?

Even if he fell under their onslaught, he couldn’t let her join him.

It would all come out eventually - but he’d sacrifice everything to push it until after the final. The clock was poised to strike, and his shell as a pumpkin-coach will evaporate to sea-foam, his legacy will melt like a puddle on the cruel cold heart of the ice, and he himself will be pricked and fall into a dreamless slumber, for which he had won no true love’s kiss to awaken to. When did the fairy godfather become the cursed prince? _But he knew exactly when_

One night earlier, over Yuri and Viktor’s own private Rubicon between the Barcelona bar and the hotel -

“ _You know those rings don’t mean anything.”_

_Viktor looked down at the hand currently rubbing his sore lower ribs. “I think they mean_ something _,” he said in a low voice._

They _did_ mean something. Viktor wasn’t sure what; all he knew was that it wasn’t enough _and that it was all his fault_.

What Yuri said about the rings didn’t bother him in the slightest (Viktor was by now well used to his backhanded displays of concern, though he wished, now more than ever, that Yuri didn’t express them so _violently_ ). What others thought of him, of him and Yuuri, did not even reach his perception anymore. And now, out here, it wasn’t even what Yuurika herself said so dismissively that still tore him apart inside _and oh he was ripping cracking shattering apart, falling from the wall he stood on, and no number of king’s horses and king’s men could put Viktor Nikiforov back together again_

It was what her ex-‘roomie’ had said (That boy was far too perceptive for his own good). It had rolled over and past Viktor before, when he had just concentrated on Yuurika’s reaction, but now, alone (excluding Yuri and his magnificent roundhouse impact, keeping him aching company), Phichit’s words sank in.

_In another time and place, if Viktor had done things differently, those rings may not have been mood rings at all_

About fifteen minutes earlier, at the bar all the skaters walking into in Barcelona -

“ _Only you, Yuuri, could turn mood rings into engagement rings.”_

“ _Yeah, when I win gold at the final,” she said sarcastically._

_Viktor_ _stared at her with tears in his eyes_ _and spilling unheeded down his cheeks._

_Phichit surmised,_ _“Those are happy tears. Right, Viktor?”_

_After long seconds, Viktor awoke back to life, face still inscrutable. He took a shuddering breath in. “Yes, yes they are,” he affirmed finally._

No, no they weren’t.

Today hadn’t been a good day for him - he’d been happy to sightsee with Yuuri, and wished he could have enjoyed it more _there weren’t many days like this left_ but that was no longer in his control; he had to accept that now. He just hoped he hadn’t allowed his discomfort to bleed through into irritation and ruin everyone else’s day _Yuuri’s day._

Then, all this. Yuuri’s secret revealed to pretty much everyone who mattered in the skating world _you know they’ll protect her, that isn’t what’s bothering you_. Chris telling her all about his dirty laundry list of faux pas _Yuuri was kindness itself, she’s forgiven you in a heartbeat, don’t lie to yourself Viktor_. A rumour of engagement _that hasn’t even begun to sink in yet, you don’t have the faculties to be upset about that right now_.

It was what Yuurika said. So, she admitted it, now that everyone present knew her gender. Viktor had picked up the thrown gauntlet of inspiring the confidence in Yuuri to take home the gold, just as she’d challenged him in that banquet hall so long ago _that wasn’t really your true goal, remember why you came. Though_ that’s _probably not even your goal anymore either_. She still didn’t believe she could win. That meant that Viktor had failed _it’s not over ‘til it’s over, but for so many things, it practically was_

About one month earlier, at the airport local to Hasetsu, with the recovered Makkachin waiting for the returning Yuurika and Yuri -

“ _Please be my coach until I retire,” she whispered in a daze._

_She felt Viktor stiffen in her arms. “Then I hope to never see you retire.”_

It was not a good answer - and not the answer he wanted to give her _but he was not the man he wanted to give her either_

He’d missed her, as he fretted on the plane back to Japan, as he rushed to the veterinarian, as he witnessed Makkachin’s recovery from weak torpor to cheerful energy _Viktor felt himself unequal to matching it now_. All he could see was Yuuri’s face as she sent him away from her and to the canine companion he loved _is that the look she’d wear when they ended this_

What Viktor told her at the airport was technically true. He’d be happy to remain her coach until the day he died.

Viktor hoped, for the second time since he’d met Yuuri, that she had not caught his awkwardly worded deflection. And for the second time, fate smiled on him _but he was starting to accept that he couldn’t expect a third time, all good and dreadful things come in threes_

One day before, following the short program, still in the Russian rink -

“ _I still wish I had more warning about Vicchan, that I could have prepared myself for what happened, and have been with him at the end,” Yuurika confessed. “I know he was fighting to hold out until I got there, and I never did. That doesn’t have to happen with Makkachin.”_

_Viktor just looked at her, with concern, gratitude, and something else she couldn’t identify._

Viktor was replacing Makkachin’s name with another _if only I had met you sooner Yuuri_

About a week earlier, after the last free skate at the China finals, sprawled on the ice -

_Yuurika watched Viktor laugh unrestrainedly, head thrown back, tears springing in the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes, howling to the world._

_And as she saw him lower his gaze to meet her own, cerulean eyes slitting open languidly with an uncalculated, intense emotion bleeding through, just for an instant, she dared to make a desperate, futile wish._

Viktor also made a wish.

Watching Yuuri waiting on the ice, Viktor had marveled (not for the first - or last - time) that she’d never fallen ill at the very least, if not injured herself with the tortuous nervous exhaustion she routinely subjected herself to. He supposed he could thank that crazy Yuurika luck that nothing worse had happened _too bad it didn’t seem to work on himself_.

He had seen Yuuri’s transformed performance to her own music, with the choreography born of trust between the two of them. He read her acceptance of his care for her, and her renewed sheer tenacity to grasp victory from the gaping maw of defeat, as clear as if it were scrolling across in written form on the digital boards on the walls behind her. Of course she understood him, and turned that understanding to inner strength. It’s what he’d long noticed and loved about her. He… loved? He loved. _He_ _loves_. All proprietary reasoning fled from him. His legs pumped and his heart raced, propelling him through the barrier, onto the rink, on the ice, reaching towards and past Yuuri’s arms far before his fuzzy brain could catch up. He felt it finally rejoin him with a thump in his stomach as they skidded across the slippery surface.

But it was okay. It was all okay - he was in one piece _he was in pieces,_ she was in one piece _she would be in pieces too if she knew, will be in pieces once she finds out_ , they were okay _they were not okay, there was no possible method for this to end well this was NOT what you planned, Viktor_.

_"What do you want me to be to you then, Yuuri?"_

He now knew who he wanted to be.

The loud, conflicting emotions finally washed over him all at once. He succumbed to their temptation, dissolving into howls of laughter that were masks for wails and sighs and screams, and probably more laughter as well. Love was complicated, and as Yuri termed it, hella painful.

Stealing a peek at the lovely sight of the disheveled, giggling, pathetically blindsided girl beside him, all Viktor’s conscious and unconscious thought united to form one throbbing, reckless plea.

Like Yuurika’s own silent wish, his was incoherent, primal, and entirely devoid of the barest hope of being granted.

Viktor wished he had made a different choice, all that time ago _he wasn’t sure, but he felt like if he had done things differently then, in order to close the distance between them now, he wouldn’t have had to reach at all_

Two nights earlier, in a restaurant in Beijing, before the China competition started -

_Phichit leaned close to whisper. “I know how you think, Yuuri. But even you’ve got to realize, it didn’t only benefit you. Everyone can tell._ Someone’s _got his inspiration back.”_

_Yuurika glanced back at Viktor worriedly. For the briefest instant, she thought she discerned her frown mirrored in Viktor’s puckered forehead._

Viktor hoped Yuurika had not caught that - his little green monster had been growing stronger and stronger during his meeting with Yuuri’s… former _roommate_. There was no call for jealousy (He himself actually slept in the same house as her, so there!... but the inn portion, which was even more distant and discreet than a co-ed dorm, his more truthful side reminded him). And anyway, what right had he to even contemplate a claim on Yuuri? But, like always, all that was mostly distraction; there was more to his reaction.

Viktor had heard the rumors. Like most with him as the subject, they were partially rooted in fact. Something was in fact missing, leading to his sudden spree in the guise of a coach _but it wasn’t his inspiration for skating_

Yuuri must not find out. _Not yet_

About a month earlier, in Yuutopia, Hasetsu, right before Yuurika’s Japanese press conference announcing the theme of her Grand Prix season -

_"Oh, I won't be there," Viktor broke the bombshell. "I have some administrative things to take care of.”_

_Yuri watched Viktor meander back to his room with narrow eyes. His door remained shut for o_ ver _an hour, his hushed voice emanating from beyond the thin shoji._

Viktor sighed, rubbing his temples after the lengthy conversation with his solicitor. Legal matters always had that effect on him. Granted, getting his affairs in order would all have gone much smoother and faster if he had begun a long time ago; he should have known better _he did know better, but Viktor Nikiforov had never been one to be ruled by reality - until now_. It was only after he hung up that the full import of what he was doing crashed over him. Viktor laid his pounding head on the low table.

_But this was the bed he made; he would lie in it (and there was only room enough in it for one)_

Many weeks earlier, while preparing for Yuurika’s free skate program choreography, in Ice Castle Hasetsu -

_Looking at the top of Viktor’s silver-sheened head_ _,_ _she reached out and poked it._

_I_ _t was electrifying._

_Did Viktor feel it too? She finally allowed her gaze to drop beneath the starlight swirls to check._

_Watery eyes gazed at her in mute betrayal._

He felt it too.

But he wasn’t supposed to feel this - this spark. Oh, he’d acted like he had - in the onsen, at Hot Springs on Ice (Viktor was physically attracted, sure, but he knew how to keep an emotional distance). It was all to get her to have confidence, to inspire her Eros routine. It wasn’t supposed to become real _oh, who was he trying to fool? He'd felt this way for a while now_. He’d promised himself. He’d _promised_. In order to deflect attention away from his stunned reaction, he tried to pass it off as a joke (He’d been doing that too often, he’d used that same ploy at the beach just earlier - retirement homes, seriously?! Stop making my heart clench Yuri).

_But he knew unless something changed sometime soon, eventually he wouldn’t be able to feel her hands on his hair anyway_

Several weeks earlier, while biking-slash-jogging with Yuurika through the streets of Hasetsu -

“ _Since I’m your skating coach, aren’t you going to call me sensei?”_

“ _Hai, Viktor-sensei?”_

_Silence._

_Yuurika glanced sidelong at Viktor. He had the strangest look on his face._

Besides the appellation feeling inherently _wrong_ , he suddenly recalled _teachers weren’t the only professionals called by that title_

A day or two earlier, when Viktor first discussed being Yuurika’s coach in his guest room at Yuutopia -

“ _But I didn’t even skate the routine well,” Yuurika noted. It had been very late, and she was certain she had flubbed several landings._

“ _Don’t be so hard on yourself.”_ _Viktor countered, a truly serious note entering his voice for the first time. “Such talent should be nurtured, in the time remaining.”_

Viktor winced internally at his awkward wording, but schooled his face into outward passiveness. There were still several ways his words could be taken, besides the one he subconsciously meant - from Yuuri’s response, it seemed she had assumed one of those. Good. She had surprised him with her inadvertent revelation, it was true, but she was hardly the only one with an elephant in the four-and-a-half tatami room. Viktor was a consummate professional - he could keep his distance and his secret. He was safer here than with Yakov, and probably Yuri, with his narrow eyes green as a cat’s and just as sharp. All Viktor had to do was smile, smile and coach. How hard could it be? _How hard indeed_

And finally, one night earlier, before this story began -

Viktor lay on his flat’s couch, fingers tangled in Makkachin's chocolate curls. The poodle whined, intuitively sensing his human's tension. He stared at the phone screen, the sharp sterile letters cutting into his brain with a thousand tiny needles. So, it was true. His (unmentioned) shoulder pain that plagued him for months (He finally admitted in his most private thoughts that it wasn’t just his imagination a little after Sochi), for which he had secretly seen endless chiropractors and specialists in appointment after agonizing appointment, wasn't due to strain or injury at all. He laughed hollowly. Who would have guessed pain in the right shoulder was a sign of liver cancer?

And now he was faced with a choice. He could bow out of skating, endure endless rounds of chemotherapy, radiation, and other treatments, and prolong his life by several years, maybe even longer if remission took. Otherwise, he could take pain medication and less invasive pills to slow the onset of metastization (which studies had shown to be effective for about a year), and wait for a less invasive treatment option to become available (Viktor considered himself to be a glass-half-full kind of guy, and knew advancements were being made every day in the oncology field but still, those were long odds. More like empty platitudes. But Viktor was blessed by his namesake goddess as well as Lady Luck; he had formed earth-shattering performances out of platitudes before. Why not again?). With either option, there was a tight deadline; he’d have to choose one path, and walk it to the bitter end without turning back.

Viktor knew what everyone would tell him, would expect him to choose, once he released the diagnosis. Yakov would shout at him, Yuri kick his shins probably, rinkmates, social media and magazines would outpour sympathies and support. Makkachin was always present for him, it was true, but Viktor couldn't dupe himself into pretending that he would even outlast his tumble-down master (And who would take care of the poodle when Viktor was... indisposed anyway?) He’d made many decisions in his life based on these inputs. But this time - not this time. This decision would be on no one’s impulse but his own.

It was a new, uncomfortable feeling. Which did he want? Well, if he was being honest, neither. He still had great plans for his career; he was at the top, and everyone says there’s nowhere but down from there, but he liked to think no one could decide except for him or herself that the top didn’t go on forever. Apparently his liver differed in opinion. And Viktor didn’t really know what there was behind the man behind the legend, if there really was a man at all past the frozen veneer. Could this be his chance to find out?

On the other hand, he didn’t want to experience the ravages of cancer treatment, lose all his (very pretty, if he said so himself, which he hardly had to considering its fans) hair, watch his eyes grow bloodshot and cloudy, smell his breath laced with chemicals and sour dehydration, and feel his skin grow spotty and desiccated and taut and rough, to submit to crippling pain and prodding and poking in achingly bright, sterile offices and labs (He wasn’t sure the entirety awaited him; it might be less invasive, but he’d seen enough, more than enough). He’d already had one biopsy and several types of scans, complete with imbing that chalky powder. Who would willingly volunteer for more of the same? Obviously, only someone with no other option. Someone who had some _one_ thing they were not willing to give up, that they had the courage _unfounded temerity_ to fight for.

So the question was, did Viktor have something _someone_ to fight for?

If so, did he have the courage to wake up and drag his slowing carcass through hell and back each day just to hold on to it, for only that day?

Or was Viktor Nikiforov, the _lonely_ legend, the _pretender_ prodigy on the _cold, cold_ ice, a _lily-livered! Ha!_ coward?

Suddenly, Viktor’s hands began moving without his conscious direction, typing and clicking to the Youtube app. That was always his way. He was a skater by profession, but a runner at heart. That's how he always dealt, always survived: by running away.

He absently clicked on some random video that caught his fancy, watching a little bit but not all the way, then moving on to the next. After a few cycles of this, he landed on a new video just posted; what of he couldn't tell, as the script in the title was in a language unfamiliar to him, but it must have had something to do with his viewing history. Yeah, there it was: the skater expertly glided forward to the center of an empty rink, turned into a flawless stop, and executed a perfect pratfall on the ice from a misplaced toepick (Viktor had a weakness for candid bloopers). He watched the continuation absently, stiffening with a start when he identified the gliding figure on the screen: he was that Jekyl-and-Hyde finalist who went all kung fu on his own poor innocent hiney during the banquet in Sochi. Shuddering, Viktor poised to skip to the next entry in the playlist, but stopped when he recognized the hauntingly familiar motions of the routine as his own. He watched with increased interest as the skater poured his heart and soul into the rhythm without reason or restraint. It wasn't technically impressive-many jumps were flubbed; Viktor's trained eye could tell there hadn't been much warmup or preparation going into the rendition, and even the dismal halide half on / half off checkered lighting melted together for a distinctly unprofessional look. Seriously, did this guy suddenly get up in the middle of the night and pop out a Viktor Nikiforov impression in an abandoned rink?

But somehow, Viktor couldn't move on to the next video. He looped the clip, and checked the description box for info. Katsuki Yuuri- Viktor recalled the name now- and Ice Castle Hasetsu. Those were the only two pieces of information he could glean.

The thought of the contradictory young man and his unanswered thrown gauntlet kept reverberating within his mind. Even as a blubbering mess, Yuuri was stronger than Viktor. He knew he’d never be satisfied with his performance on the rink - but he kept returning to it anyway. Between the two of them, it was obvious who deserved success more.

The glimmering embers of a plan coalesced and flared in his mind. Before he could rationalize himself out of it, he opened up a booking app, did some quick searching, and bought a one-way ticket to a tiny airport in the Saga prefecture. How appropriate, he thought. This would be his saga. He would make his mark on history there, build his legacy.

There was so much he had to do, Viktor thought, as the phone slipped through his numbing fingers and delayed shock-induced unconsciousness finally arrived to claim him. After all, he only had a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: cancer, depression, prospective terminal illness diagnosis  
> The part about shoulder pain being a symptom of cancer is unfortunately real. From what I remember, it’s not necessarily the liver though (The real inspiration for this part of the plot occurred some time ago, and I don’t remember the exact group of organs that were looked at before finding the cancer in the liver). The description here of living with cancer and treatments is being (over)dramatized by a very scared Viktor, but as anyone knows who has gone through it or watched another do so, it is not something you’d wish on any person. But cancer victims aren't alone, there are lots of resources now, and many people do get through it, so don’t be discouraged. The suggestion that anyone would or could endure cancer for months in secret is ridiculous, and also the wrong thing to do. This fanfiction does not offer medical guidance. Always consult a professional. The same goes for depression, which is also obliquely colouring Viktor’s view in this chapter (along with its bedfellows pain and fear), especially when he makes his decision - if depression affects you or someone you know, seek professional help. The two treatment options Viktor faces here are made up; I’ve never experienced someone being faced with this decision (There was just a doctor’s recommended treatment plan to follow). This fanfiction in no way recommends or condones Viktor’s choice. Nor does it call Viktor a coward for it either (Viktor himself says that because depression causes you to beat yourself up about the decisions you make). There are many moral implications to consider in such a decision which you should consult someone knowledgeable about, and this fanfiction does not pretend to advise in those matters.  
> Oh goodness, I really tackled something way out of my depth here - I hope this is okay and does not traumatise anyone - but they say to write what you know, and for me that is watching others with cancer. It is intended to be cathartic rather than traumatizing.


	31. #YuurisDontLoveViktors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the world still spins, though Yuurika isn't sure how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 of 6 chapter simultaneous update.

“... And that’s it. That’s everything, Yuuri.”

Yuurika had stared stonily ahead through the whole jumbled story, her jaw taut with repressed emotions.

Viktor recognized that rictus of pain; it was the same as the one he suppressed each day. A horrid sensation haunted the back of his throat, like the sour bile he had just puked ten minutes ago in the washroom had crawled zombie-like back up his esophagus (This was occurring with increasing frequency; it had been getting harder and harder to hide. A small emotionally numb part of him unclenched in relief that he’d no longer have to conceal it, but he hardly had time or energy to even consider that now).

He gave her a space, then called her name gently. “Yuuri?”

But she remained frozen.

Worry and fear, held at bay for so long by sheer stubbornness, finally overcame his defenses _he was weak, weak and he needed to know she was there beside him_. “Yuuri, can you hear me!?”

Yuurika snapped from her stillness, snatching Viktor’s tie and pulling his face down to her level.

Viktor gazed hopelessly at her overpoweringly wide eyes. In them was the coldly piercing Yuuri from the banquet at Sochi. The breathless, awestruck Yuuri from the first night at the onsen. Warm vulnerable Yuuri when she thought she was alone visiting Vicchan’s shrine. Boldly predatory Yuuri in the black lace and silver, prowling about the ice in her hunt for hearts. Flustered, shy Yuuri who somehow befriended the most belligerent skater in all of Russia. Ineffably caring and unassuming Yuuri who guilelessly brought the top of the whole skating world to rally around her and her secret. _And he loved all of them to the point of stupidity_

And also, there, he finally recognized another Yuuri for the first time, one he’d caught hints and glimpses of but never truly encountered in full.

It was the broken, shattered pieces of the insecure, shuttered, self-loathing Yuuri, the one who could never hope to be truly loved, not in that way. This was beyond a mere refusal to believe in her ability to win a competition. This was the Yuuri who no matter how she tried, what she achieved or who told her she was special, convinced herself she would never be enough.

It was also the Yuuri that, despite her best intentions and against all her better judgment, loved _adored clung to lived and breathed_ the one standing before her.

It was Viktor’s soulmate, in every sense of the word.

Especially because like every soulmate, that was the true Viktor too.

“Yuuri,” Viktor exhaled, tasting Yuurika’s breath on his own lips as he opened them. He leaned closer. “I -”

“No.” The sharp word rang out clearly.

Viktor closed his mouth.

“You listen to me, Viktor Nikiforov.” Yuurika closed the distance between the two of them until their foreheads crashed together. “You listen to me, for once. Don’t you dare take your eyes off me.” She released him, tore his coat off herself and shoved it and his phone into his arms. With a final inscrutable glance, Yuurika pivoted, and stalked towards the competitors’ halls.

“One last time.”


	32. #ViktorsDontLoveYuuris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You set my heart on fire! Everyone knows you're right. Don't stop us now, because you only live once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 of 6 chapter simultaneous update.

As the distant Yuurika awaited her signal from the center of the rink, Viktor tapped his still-golden ring against his tension-pressed lips absently, and finally restored attention to his phone. He swiped the new e-mail notification. It was not from his oncologist - but rather from the surgeon recommended by her. Once opened, he scanned the contents, face a mask of neutrality. They offered what he’d despaired of far too long ago - another _chance_ choice: a new experimental surgery that gave him a dead even chance of survival. His odds - should he choose to take them - literally equaled the flip of a coin. On the one hand, he now knew he wanted to continue at Yuurika’s side. Such a choice might lead to pain and uncertainty, but the rewards of success would make it all worth it thousands of times over ( _for him_ , his baser thoughts teased, but the pain and uncertainty would not be limited to the confines of the treated. Did he dare to make such a decision for those who would endure it with him _how dare he not, for them?_ ). On the other, by making the opposite choice those many tumultuous, worldview-changing months ago, he very likely might have lost the chance, the right to the one he now wanted to live for. And knew that without her _he still felt_ -

His gaze was torn away from his screen as the music wafted from the stadium speakers, accompanied by a clear voice.

###

Yuurika’s expression was pained. She should have realized. When he first arrived in Hasetsu, when he said was no longer able to drive. His being up at odd hours of the night. His clear eagerness for the warmth of the onsen, even when he hadn’t exerted himself. His choice to bike when she ran, his lagging behind if forced to follow on foot (“ _Yuri, I said wait! Right, Viktor?_ _)_. His barely perceptible dwindling weight ( _You've lost muscle already, haven't you?;_ the lightness of his too-thin fingers as she slipped on the golden band). His disappearing on sudden breaks for what she had presumed to be using the washroom or coaching affairs during lengthy competitions ( _“You’re going to get some sleep for the next few hours - but I’ve got to take care of some coach administrative things; I need to find someone to stay with you.”_ ). His ordering water at that bar just two nights ago when everyone else was drinking; in fact she’d never seen him drink alcohol since he came all those months ago, when she distinctly remembered him always doing so moderately before at skating galas. It all pointed straight to the pain medication - she couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was enduring all this time. It was inexplicable that he was able to maintain the facade of health even up to this point, especially as a coach for such a demanding sport. Why hadn’t she noticed earlier? _Why hadn’t he allowed her to help him?_

She pondered this as she gestured upwards with the first strains of _YURI!!! on Ice_.

_I._ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.) _Love._ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.)

For this free skate, she had added the lyrics.

_I._ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.) _Love._ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.)

She had begun composing them after the competition in China, and finished after Rostelecom. Her heart full of new emotions after her free skate tumble, she had written them down and found a vocalist to record them in secret.

_I._ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.) _Love._ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.)

She had planned for the lyrics to remain in that clandestine state, but Yuri’s words before her short program had stirred something within her. It was time to embrace all she is now.

_I._ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.) _Love._ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.)

_Ai._

(The piano notes entered a phrase without words, ranging up and down the board to the percussionist’s inviting beat, like a young lost soul exploring a new frozen world, leaping and looking at all about them, searching for something they didn’t know, for someone they would recognize when they found him)

This decision wasn’t easy. It contributed to and amplified her habitual pre-competition jitters, leading to her solitary pacing before the free skate. She had intended to pour out her soul, in her performance, in her lyrics, to put her all into this tribute to their history-making run, to leave no avenue untried and no room for regrets or what-ifs.

_How can I_

_How can you_

_How can I_

_Oh can you_

Now, as she skated, she realized her all included her regard for Viktor. But that regard was not blind.

_So near me_

_I fear we_

_How can I_

_Oh can we_

Her spins and jumps etched her inner turmoil deep in the ice and even deeper in her heart.

(The violins hesitantly joined with their sisters the piano and percussion, gliding in alongside them)

_I stand before you now_

_Sometimes I wonder how_

Yuurika had long worried that her attraction to Viktor was merely superficial. She did not want a temporary passion, a fleeting dream unable to withstand the hardships of real life to mislead her, to ruin both of them.

(With short swift strokes, the strings spurred on the tempo as they leapt and tumbled about the ice)

_Don’t know if you will stay_

_Only can stand and say_

Now that she had inadvertently uncovered the implacable bitter truth, she knew the long-dreaded test of her constancy was truly beginning. But it also revealed another, deeper truth within it.

(All three instruments as one raced in a thrilling, longing spiral of ecstasy up towards the heavens, pleading achingly)

_I do_

_It all for yo~u_

Yuurika loved Viktor.

_Every glance_

_Each second chance_

_I wish you knew~_

He had changed her, yet made her more herself. He was no longer her childhood idol. He was her coach, her friend, and the love of her life. Viktor _was Viktor was Viktor_ Nikiforov was a real man, with real faults, real hopes and dreams, and real pain. And she loved him anyway - agape and eros and everything in between.

(Like all things, even music must slow and descend back to the earth, fading away; as at the start, only the piano remained)

_When I_

_Fly high_

_I cry_

_Goodbye_

_To the day before you came_

_I know I’ll never be the same_

She wanted him to choose to fight for himself, not to be his reason. But he was already hers.

As the voice cut off for the recapitulation and the keys and sticks resumed their restless roaming, Yuurika spun on.

(The violin, lonely without her sisters, crept back to remind them of her presence, waiting, always waiting, whispering of her half-formed hope)

_I don’t know you’ll stay_

_Right now I only pray_

_That I not see the day_

_When you fin’ly walk away_

Viktor, mesmerized by Yuurika’s impassioned baring of her soul with every raw stroke and leap, watched the light of his tenuous life flicker across the ice.

(The poignant cry of all three instruments finally thrummed in harmony with one clear _final impossible_ desire)

_I don’t know if you will stay_

_Right now I only pray_

_That you never walk away_

As the score strained to its apex, Viktor tore his eyes away for the barest instant to feverishly type a response on his phone and press send.

_I_

_Do it all for you_

_It’s true~_

Unconsciously, Yuurika’s lips opened as she breathed along the final words.

_Zenbu_

_Ga’anata_

_Ni naru_

_Ai (_ Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.) _sh’te_ (Bdmp. Bdmp. Bdmp.) _ru._

And it’s all over. The last notes die away, and Yuurika is left alone on the ice, her chest heaving with exertion, her hands outstretched to someone who is no longer there. She rakes the crowded aisles with her desperate gaze, until she finds the object of her search running full-tilt to the kiss-and-cry entrance. With savage wide scrapes of her blades, she propels herself blindly towards the edge of the rink. She hurls herself headlong at the concrete barrier, only to be slammed into a tall greatcoated human one that envelops the entirety of her in its arms.

Neither of them know what everyone is seeing or saying. Neither are capable of caring.

“Yuuri,” Viktor whispers, his face buried in her hair and his mouth pressed to her ear. “I’ve made my decision.”

Yuurika chokes back a tired sob against his neck, transforming it into a full-hearted sigh. “As have I.”

Both respond by holding each other tighter, their frozen breath twisting and mingling into a single serpentine trail leading up to the expanse above. They hold on with all they have, with all the strength in their bodies, for as long as they have left. As everyone realizes sooner or later, they have so precious little. They will their time in that moment to extend with their whole beings, to make each second syrupy slow.

But there comes a point when the hands of time must resume their proper pace, even for the star-crossed. And there also comes a point when you run out of second chances.

For them, both points converge when Viktor collapses to the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own the OP or ED lyrics in the epigraph, but I did write the fanlyrics to the song YURI!!! on Ice (I don’t own the music itself of course). I like to imagine the voice to sound like RWBY’s Casey Lee Williams, or maybe AmaLee (LeeandLie on Youtube, you may have heard her in her gorgeous English cover of Aldnoah.Zero’s Alliez). If you’d like to know how it goes with the music, I’ve posted it sung (very very badly, sorry) on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HiU0dBaSXrU&feature=youtu.be) as 'YURI on Ice (Yuuri’s Free Skate from OST) Fan Lyrics'. I rather doubt anyone will choose to use these lyrics, but should you do so, please contact and credit me beforehand, mostly so I can read / listen to what you create myself!  
> For the Japanese part of the lyrics:  
> “Ai” means “Love.”  
> “Zenbu ga anata ni naru” means, roughly, “Everything becomes you” or “Everything transforms into you.”  
> “Aishiteru” means “I love you.”


	33. (Heads) #OnlyTheGood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stay close to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 of 6 chapter simultaneous update.

For her exhibition skate, she chose the song that started it all.

When she slid out with longing draped about her like a shroud, all were reminded of the legend who had made the routine famous.

But when a soprano trilled haunting words instead of the usual tenor, all were surprised. The emotion only increased as they noticed that the choreography was similar, but different. It was all mirrors, delayed images, harmonic motions.

It took some time before someone on the net thought to overlay Viktor’s recorded rendition of the piece with this altered version.

Stammi Vicino was transformed into a tale of passing visions in the night, missed chances, of two lovers constantly and steadfastly orbiting each other, but never managing to unite. Where one reached, the other leapt; where one leant back, the other drew apart. Hands extended never met. Lips touching lips never kissed.

Yuurika, a shade given form on ice, danced alone.


	34. Tales) #ToMakeHistory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they’re born to make Viktuuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 of 6 chapter simultaneous update.

When Viktor opened his eyes, the first thing he saw were large umber ones boring into his.

“Viktor…?” Yuurika whispered disbelievingly.

Viktor strained his vocal chords, but they felt glued together. He opted to stroke her hair instead, but was thwarted by numerous intravenous tubes stemming from his arms like the nexus of a spiderweb.

Yuurika covered his impeded hand with her own. “Here,” she told him hurriedly, “drink this.” She elevated the medical gurney with the remote, and pressed a small styrofoam cup of water to his lips.

Viktor drank gratefully, and rasped a few hums to retune his voicebox. “Who… won?” he finally pronounced weakly.

Yuurika laughed at him, her eyes wet and blinking. “Is that the important issue right now?” she thickly asked (His weary mind placed him back all those months ago, in that tiny tatami room where a girl he didn't know replaced a man he thought he did, and in their first ever _sober_ conversation, spoke those same words).

Well, he was here and alive, and he could see her beside him and well. He hadn’t needed to ask that. Makkachin would be safe and well cared-for in Yuutopia, and Viktor wasn’t sure if he could take the news if all his hair was gone; that had better wait. But there was one more thing he could think of. “Will I… be able to skate?” he asked her hopefully.

Her face fell.

Oh.

“I… don’t know,” Yuurika told him gently. “I hope so. I won’t lie to you, Viktor. You were miraculously lucky that you sent that reply authorizing the surgery when you did. Even so, all this -” she gestured vehemently at the medical apparati enclosing them in the tiny hospital suite “is far too little, too late to get off with no consequences.”

“I wanted… to finally... skate with you…” Viktor admitted, lids lowering tiredly.

“Oh, well _that_ I can give you a definite answer to. It’s no.”

Viktor’s eyes shot open, watering. His lip quivered from a mixture of exhaustion, shock, and fear.

“Not in male singles’ competitions, anyway,” Yuurika continued calmly. “I’ve been outed.”

Viktor knitted his brows, racking his still foggy brain for any remaining mishap that hadn’t already happened. “Extreme… wardrobe malfunction?” He went for broke.

Yuurika clearly resisted the urge to slap him. “Hardly. Actually, it was your fault. In order to be allowed access to your medical condition, I had to identify myself as named in your authorized permissions. As Katsuki Yuurika, a female. It got leaked; maybe the press overheard.”

“Sorry,” Viktor whispered, closing his eyelids, succumbing to the sleeping agents still coursing through his bloodstream.

“It’s okay. It would have come out eventually,” said Yuurika soothingly. "But with the backing from the rest of the finalists, the association decided to extend me an invitation to compete in the female bracket from now on. I'm told it was touch and go for a while, but the civil servant who switched out my forms gave testimony on my behalf. Apparently, once his wife heard about the turmoil on the news, she threatened to kick him out until he agreed to come forward."

Viktor chuckled weakly at that. He knew of a few women in his life that that reminded him of.

"So, if I end up choosing to continue skating, there may be a coaching position open for you. Not that you'll lack your pick, what with Yuri's prospects."

_Yuri!..._ Oh, no. Viktor’s eyelids fluttered in agitation.

Yuurika saw the distressed lines wrinkling his forehead and hastily attempted to distract him. “But none of that is important now anyway. Don’t you want to know your prognosis?”

Did he?

Yuurika didn’t wait to find out. “It's your just like your usual performances: gold medal-worthy. Complete remission. They caught it before metastasization and removed the entire tumor. Your chances of recurrence are effectively zero. You’re cured.”

All the fear, pain, and heartache of the day (That wasn’t today anymore, was it?) released and washed over Viktor. A single tear slid down his colorless cheek.

Yuurika stroked it away. “I’m just so glad you’re here, Vicchan,” she mumbled, her own exhaustion breaking over her.

“Vic..chan?” Her dog, right? Why was she confusing him with her long-lost pet? He wasn’t dead yet (nor a dog)!

Yuurika blushed.

Certain things clicked into place in Viktor’s slowly functioning brain. As Yuurika had noted before, he was good with picking up languages. Certain honorifics and name shortening conventions he had picked up on in his time in Japan fired with gradually increasing speed through his warming-up synapses.

“You… named your pet… after me?”

An strangled embarrassed hum escaped her.

“How long... have you loved me?”

Yuurika rested a lone finger on his lips and her head on the stiff rough sheets. He noted that neither of their hands bore rings, mood or otherwise, but Viktor caught a glimpse of two circlets of burnished gold peeking from a chain clasped around her neck. “Go to sleep, baka Viktor.”

Viktor shifted the freer of his two limbs until he clasped her finger with his own, and finally complied.

He couldn’t be sure as he drifted into a healing slumber, but he thought he heard a whisper drift to his ears from somewhere in the region just beside his steadily beating heart.

“I always have. I just didn’t know how much.”

###

“There’s one thing I can’t forgive you for,” Yuurika told Viktor suddenly.

“Only one?” her husband echoed jokingly.

“You said once that you were someone Yuri could rely on, that he could trust you and feel some sort of stability in his life. You said didn’t want to hide yourself from him, whether he ever opened up to you or not. You lied.”

An irrational wave of anger swept over Viktor. “Cancer was never a part of me,” he spat. It was an invader, a ruthless killer and robber from which he and countless others could never exact revenge.

“But your depression was.”

Viktor looked down. He’d never named it, not even to himself.

“You shouldn’t have gone it alone, even before we met. Yuri loves you, Viktor. He needed you. He still needs you.”

“I think you’re mistaking who he stayed in Hasetsu for, all those months,” Viktor teased, derailing the subject.

“Um, you, remember? You were our coach?” Yuurika prodded. “But nice try. What I’m trying to say is,” Yuurika turned Viktor’s face towards her gently, “let’s both be there for him from now on.”

“We will, love.” Viktor took her in his arms reassuringly. “We aren't going anywhere.”

Yuurika sighed in contented agreement. “I’m not sure why, but he seems down recently. I guess he can’t help but take after you, even the less stellar bits.”

“I never angsted as a teen.”

“I guess not. You were a diva instead.”

“And you loved it, didn’t you?” Viktor teased. Yuurika just laughed. He smiled in return, running his fingers through her (very slightly, it still retained its boyish charm) grown hair. “Well, he won’t take after me in everything,” he stated, gazing at his wife.

“No, he won’t,” Yuurika vowed, face haunted.

Viktor sighed. That wasn’t what he had meant. He'd been given a second chance, at life, at love, after he thought he had lost them forever - he intended to make the most of both without fear or regrets. You only live once.

Yuurika’s text alert trilled, breaking up the moment. She scanned the ensuing notification banner.

“Mila says she and Yuri are going out to see that new movie,” Yuurika announced.

“Mila, huh?” Viktor echoed, exploring the possibilities.

“What? No,” Yuurika groaned at him. “Stop.”

“She might like him.”

“She likes _deadlifting_ him.”

“You, darling, are not the best judge of such matters.”

Yuurika couldn’t deny it. After all, despite all her adamant disavowal for years on end, Viktors do, in fact, love Yuuris.

And Yuuris will always love Viktors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next epilogue.


	35. #YurisDontLoveYuuris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn Yuurika and Viktor aren't the only ones with secrets.

\- During practice before the Grand Prix Final short program in Barcelona -

“ _I’ve heard that part about the next best thing to flying before, though. Otabek said the same thing about his motorcycle.”_

“ _You asked him why he rode a motorcycle?”_

“ _...No…”_

“ _You asked him about love?”_

_A strangled noise was her only answer as they whizzed past each other in a shower of scraped snow._

Several hours earlier the night before, on the way from the bar back to the hotel -

“What do you think about love?”

Otabek shifted involuntarily at Yuri’s abrupt question. “What sort of love?”

A very curious noise escaped from diminutive Russian. That sort, then. Uh. “Who for?” Otabek asked cautiously.

“No one! I’m just asking for skating reasons!”

_And I don’t have anyone else to ask_ , Otabek heard left unsaid. This boy, how had he survived so long without a friend his own age? Well, it fell to him to help his new friend out. He watched Yuri’s glass green eyes carefully, noting how they glanced everywhere: at him, at his coach (one of them. One out of three! Didn’t this boy know how lucky he was?), his fellow competitors, his friends from Japan, at everyone except -

Oh.

Well, this… maybe he should have expected it. What was he going to do with this boy? Really, Yuri wore his heart on his sleeve - in his own aggressive, contrary way. Otabek wouldn’t be surprised if his rinkmates and coaches already knew. In that case, perhaps they were ignoring the issue to be delicate towards his feelings. Otabek would have to circumspect, then. “Do you know why I ride a motorcycle, Yuri?”

“You’re in love with your motorcycle?!”

“No.” Darn. This wasn’t going as well as he hoped. He glanced at Yuri, who was staring at him desperately. He just knew the younger boy’s next question would be if he should get a motorcycle in order to learn about love, that is, he meant skating. As Yuri’s mouth opened, the words forming, Otabek hastily continued. “I want to fly. To be free, able to soar anywhere, on my own power. It’s like I was meant to. But I can’t fly.”

“Obviously,” Yuri interjected, gaze clouded as he struggled to match Otabek’s strides.

“Right. But that longing is still there. It’s misplaced, Yuri. What I really want is that feeling of freedom, not to fly. And I can have that feeling - on a motorcycle.”

Yuri threw him an overtly skeptical look. “So you’re settling for the next best thing? I don’t want… to skate like that,” he answered slowly.

_You don’t want to_ live _, to_ love _like that, you mean_ , Otabek mused. He could understand that, and he too wanted only the best for Yuri. But Yuri needed to learn that you don’t always get what you want (or even what you need). Especially if it’s someone who is clearly in love with your coach, not you.

Many months later, back in Russia -

Yuri glared down at the opened e-mail on his screen, fighting off a successive range of emotions from his twitching visage. He scratched his stomach through his cheap print T-shirt (the tiger one from nearly a year ago in Hasetsu. There were still faint curry stains - he could recall Yuurika saying they matched the image, making it look like intentionally distressed vintage. For completely unrelated reasons, Yuri decided to hang on to it despite the damage). Well, he knew this was coming. It was a little sooner than he had expected though.

After a minute, Yuri allowed himself to smile fondly at the invitation. It represented the happiness of two of his favourite people, after all, not to mention the hair’s-breadth survival of one of them. His feelings on Viktor’s long deception, Yuri kept stratified deep inside, but he knew someday it would burst out of him like a vengeful volcano, right when he could least afford it. He also knew, alone in his room and still far too close to that heart-shattering period, it would not be this day. Yuri’d at first wondered, while waiting for news in the stale bright hospital corridor, if he’d been _nicer_ , if he’d been more _honest_ , would Viktor have made a different decision nearly a year ago, but Yuurika had shushed him and said no, of course not, don’t think like that, none of this was in any way his fault. But later, when he finally realized the exact location he had kicked Viktor in that night in Barcelona standing over their own personal Rubicon… Yuri actually wasn’t exactly sure what happened; the next thing he knew Yuurika’s arms were wrapped protectively around him and rocking him back and forth, and she was murmuring like a meaningless mantra _it’s okay, it’s going to be okay_ in his ear (And she was right). But he didn’t want to think about that anymore.

Regardless, his feelings on the upcoming nuptials were mixed and complicated, and they stemmed from an entirely different cause.

A jagged hardness slipped into Yuri’s smile as he threw his phone across the room.

During Yuurika’s and Yuri’s (but not Viktor’s) first international junior competition in Japan several years earlier, which we’re flashbacking to yet again (You thought we were done with this a long time ago, didn’t you) -

Yuri remembered the very first time he ever laid eyes on Katsuki Yuuri quite well.

He had returned to the bleachers after his own program (alone. Thanks a lot, stupid Viktor), just after the next skater’s name was announced.

The boy performed effortlessly, flying and spinning across the frozen expanse as if he could do it all as easy as breathing. Why had Yuri never heard of this guy before? He was good - but not too good (not a Viktor, that great jerk, doing everything Yuri could do and doing it years earlier, easy as piroshki), and actually not good enough to warrant such attention from the (self-proclaimed, at the present, but world-acclaimed soon enough) prodigy Yuri Plisetsky. He found himself both intrigued, and irritated that he was so inexplicably intrigued. Fortunately, his irritated face and his normal face didn’t look all that dissimilar, so no one called him out on it.

Soon enough, he found himself standing snugly next to him on the trilevel winner’s podium.

"What's your name?" Yuri asked the boy suddenly.

"Yuuri?"

"Yes, what?" he asked, gruffly, embarrassed that he knew his name, while Yuri remained ignorant of his. Was that rude? It probably was rude.

"No, my... name?"

Was that a question, or an answer?

“You’re Yuri too?”

The strange spacy skater just glanced sidelong at him silently. After a lengthy pause, he nodded.

“Won’t the audience be frustrated when two Yuris place side by side? I’d be confused as hell,” Yuri said. And he didn’t doubt for a second that they would keep placing together, on the two top tiers. It was fated. They’d be life-long rivals, always challenging each other to new and greater heights, and maybe even become best friends, sharing secrets and cat videos constantly with each other. He could feel it.

“I wouldn’t worry. I doubt we’ll ever place together again,” the skater mumbled.

Yuri’s jaw dropped. Hurt beyond all comprehension, he ignored the boy and refused to speak to him for the remainder of the day.

Of course, the very next year, he thought he found out the real reason for the cryptic comment, when he saw Katsuki Yuuri debuting in the senior division. He hadn’t guessed his age. Seriously, that dude was tiny (Yes, Yuri also thought what you’re thinking right now. Something about pots and kettles, right? He would like to politely ask you to stop). And in the ensuing competitions, he thought he understood even further, as none of the skater’s performances ever matched the scintillating brilliance of his first.

(And though no-one else realized it, Yuuri was not the only skater unintentionally snubbed in Sochi. Though Yuri had searched, the washroom stare-down brought no flash of recognition to doe-brown eyes.)

But it wasn’t until several long years later, until he returned to Japan (to Yuutopia! Ha!) that he actually stumbled upon (laughably literally) the entire meaning. Coincidentally, he simultaneously found out the reason for his undue fascination too (subconsciously at least - his conscious mind wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of acknowledgement). Whoever said that baths could provide the answers to the important questions of life apparently knew what the hell they were talking about (It was also there that he first heard the full name of the ryokan - there was a family name preceding the Yuutopia that he would have recognized had the quadruplets? Triplets? mentioned it in their directions).

None of those discoveries made him feel any better about the whole situation.

Over a year after the Grand Prix Final at Barcelona -

“You may now kiss the bride.”

At their wedding, Yuri looked away, flinching. He only lifted his gaze when the clapping died back down (far later than was decent, he thought). The languid dreamy rapture in her amber-flecked eyes sent a thrill of unease through his heart.

He didn’t stop watching as Yuurika finally performed an impromptu rendition of the traditional Chu-no-Mai for a delighted Viktor. A self-conscious blush spread across her face as she bent and slid gracefully across the cleared floor, carefully clasped folded paper plates substituting for the missing fans, mood band on her slender finger scattering iridescent sparks from the chandelier’s glow. Yuri’s wrapt attention was broken when Viktor cajoled him to reciprocate the favour in his stead with a demonstration of the kazatsky. Yuri steadfastly and repeatedly refused, until Otabek offered to face him across the floor.

He kept his face strictly schooled in neutrality throughout (Fortunately this was a dance where that actually worked). He concentrated on the laughing, sparkling eyes appreciating the novelty and graciousness (or so she thought. Oh, Viktor would pay for this later) of Yuri’s performance. It was the only thing that forced him to tolerate the absurdity of the situation.

Because that’s exactly what it was: absurd. And the most ridiculous part about the whole thing was, it could have been him standing there next to Yuurika.

The most important thing people didn’t know about his parents wasn’t where they were (Even he didn’t know - where do people go, after that?). It was that they waited seven years for him. The pertinent result of that fact wasn’t how much his parents must have cherished him (Though he sometimes thought about that too. His grandpa liked to remind him, but it left him craving the comfort of his arms, so he tried to avoid remembering near the ice). No, the crucial thing was if the universe wasn’t so broken, he’d be seven years older than he was now (like the ones he so enjoyed labeling ancient in half-petty schadenfreude, half-irony). Seven years gained, and he’d have been only a year younger than the woman there on the stage now, gazing with her heart in her eyes at the man who might have passed for his older brother.

And that - that was what hurt the most, that fueled all of his pent-up fury that constantly leaked out of his very pores.

“ _I don't think blind rage as a theme would go over with sponsors very well,”_ _he had once muttered in Hasetsu._

“ _What are you so angry about?” Viktor had asked._

_Yuri had just shrugged. He had always had something to be angry about._

Because, in the end, what was Yuri but a smaller, weaker, time-delayed copy of Viktor? Of course they would both be the ice figure skating genius of their generation, setting and breaking world records until all despaired of ever surpassing their greatness. Of course they would be loved and cherished by the masses, fawned over by fans and courted by reporters eager for exclusives. Of course all would look at him as if they were witnessing Viktor growing up in a new incarnation, born to surprise them with his spontaneity and take their breath away with each new performance. And, of course, both men would fall helplessly in love with the same shy, graceful, hopeless girl who carried a trove of talent and heart within her, just waiting for the recognition and cultivation. And, because the world was weird, wonderful, and cruel, of course she would be the only piece of Viktor’s legacy that Viktor’s clone couldn’t share in (Yuri was forgetting two other important exceptions: he was not cursed with cancer, and had the temerity, unlike his predecessor, to fall in love at first sight. Yet again, Viktor didn’t honour dibs).

If Yuurika could look so blissful standing there next to Viktor, couldn’t she have looked just as happy at Yuri’s side?

Yuri knew Yuurika didn’t know, and it wouldn’t make an iota of difference if she did, except to share his frustration without diminishing any that he felt, like a communicable disease. That’s why he’d purposefully hid it, even from himself it when he could. Asking her about the reason for her season’s theme before the final’s short program was a momentary lapse in judgement, one of the stupidest _bravest_ things he’d ever done _for Viktor,_ _but separate from that he’d harbored a nanoscopic hidden hope the whole time of receiving a very different very impossible answer_. Yuri, for all his posturing, wasn’t the best at keeping secrets.

But this secret wasn’t one he needed to hold onto anyway. It was time to let his first love go.

It was easy to say, but harder to put into practice than he expected (and he knew all about grueling practice). Yuri had assumed detaching from people was something that came naturally to him, born out of the necessity of his past experiences. And it wasn't as if he was _losing_ her (How could you lose someone who was never yours anyway?). He knew, though he liked to pretend otherwise, that she’d be there for him, cheering him on, both on and off the ice. She would always be his friend _his agape_. Rationalizing it like that made it easier _and harder_ for his head to move past his crush. Now just to persuade his heart into following.

Sticking stubbornly in his seat during the bouquet toss (positioned strategically behind the solid but woefully short wall that was a standing Otabek), Yuri was interrupted from his musing by a flying bundle of roses, lilies and prickly knotted ribbons bashing him in the face. He heard scattered laughing and clapping and a single “Yabai!”

“Just typical,” he muttered.

Months after that -

“So you can come?” Mila asked him hopefully.

“What movie is it?” Yuri asked from the rink lounge’s ratty couch, eyes not leaving his screen as he scrolled through his newsfeed. He wished Otabek would resist sharing every single new model from Kawasaki and Harley Davidson, and also tagging him in each new cat video.

“One of those Excelsior! Cinematic Universe movies,” Mila reported, scrolling through the listing. "Let's see who can spot the Lan Stee cameo first! Loser pays for the tickets!"

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Sure, hag.”

“Yay! I’m telling Yuuri!” Mila squealed, hugging the top of his head and typing out the message.

His protesting groan lacked it's usual volume.

Mila's exuberant demeanor softened into a fond sigh. "Hey, let’s pick up ice cream on the way. My treat," she urged, bulldozing him from his supine position towards the exit.

“Okay,” Yuri acquiesced without complaint. Though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he did appreciate Mila’s (and Otabek’s) attempts to cheer him up, especially when he was feeling unexpectedly blue. Like today.

“So, what kind do you want?” Mila urged, linking arms.

Yuri answered.

He knew he would grow and change, that skating wouldn’t last forever, and neither would his first failed love. The thought inspired both hesitant hope and sheer terror. His career might be transient, but if he could help it, his friends, the family of his heart, would remain with him forever (In fact, with their personalities and inexplicable attachment to him despite his sour nature, the trick might be to gain breathing space from them).

But even so, right here and now, when the choice arose, he still gravitated towards plain vanilla.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading!  
> This is the end of the main storyline, but if you want to read more about Yuurika and the gang’s shenanigans (pre-tonal shift, so they’re not this serious and are actually funny I hope), there's the collection of one-shots called Hashtag Y So Extra (as referenced in previous chapters here).  
> Additionally, there is also a sort-of crack epilogue to this epilogue to be posted separately, called Hashtag OvercomeChitoko, and another separate oneshot called Hashtag Molotov, with includes a kiss scene (oh goodness)! And after all, what story can truly end without a beach episode?  
> Please visit me at [vanillaisnotplain on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vanillaisnotplain) to squeal over the adorableness that is the Yuri on Ice the Musical, and other YoI things!  
> Stats for your amusement (including side stories):  
> Skaters who LIED: 5 (Viktor, Yuri, Christophe, Phichit, Mila)  
> Skaters who DIDN’T (explicitly, verbally, and knowingly) lie: 11 (Yuurika, Georgi, Guang-Hong, Leo, Seung-Gil, Sara, Micky, Emil, JJ, Otabek, Minami)  
> Times Yuurika said “Yabai!”: 8  
> Times Viktor said “Vkusno!”: 3  
> Times Viktor said “Vkusno!” referring to Yuurika: 2  
> Times Yuri said “Typical”: 7  
> Times Yuri was part of a cat pun / joke: oh please no  
> Times Seung-Gil said “No”: 7  
> Times Celestino appeared, excluding flashbacks: 0


End file.
